Fade to Black
by SkadiTheEvilElf
Summary: The most dangerous adversary is the one who has lost everything, and has nothing left to lose. A journey to the other side of the mind and soul, where a shattered mind that has gone past the point of no return learns there is no such thing. Post MOTB.
1. Disposable Heros

_Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._-Dante, The Divine Comedy

_You are remembered for the rules you break _– General Douglas MacAuthur

_Better never to have met you in my dream than to wake and reach for hands that are not there._ - Otomo No Yakamochi

The moonless night sky sparkled serenely as an early spring breeze, still chilled from its journey down the mountain slopes, rustled through bramble and tree. Creatures of the night stalked about with spring fever tempered by caution. The ancient game of life was starting another chapter in its annals, and night's children instinctively understood their roles, and played them accordingly. A mouse sniffed the air of its burrow tentatively, hoping to catch the scent of a mate instead of an owl. Several yards away, a lynx stood silent vigil from a tree limb, her keen eyes seeking the slightest movement within pouncing distance. Her cubs were not far, and she kept one ear flicked in their direction, listening for trouble.

A sudden silent burst of grey half-light tore through the heavens and barreled like warped lightning down to the woodland floor, stealing the night's maidenhead like a cavalier rake. The mouse cowered back into his burrow, and the lynx growled and leapt away as a swirling cloud of grey, ice cold and reeking of death and forgotten graves, coalesced into a suffocating fog. As quickly as it came, it vanished into the night, leaving behind a small female form that lay curled and shaking.

Her breath was ragged, and her lungs were drinking in gulp after precious gulp of air. Crisp, cool air, she noted with more than a little surprise. She opened her eyes halfway, slowly focusing directly in front of her, and shifted her eyes to darkvision with a quick blink. Blurry shapes lit up in her shadow vision, and she finally was able to make out the outline of a rock half covered by a crawling wormwood bush. Opening her eyes fully, she lifted her head, then began to feel the cool, damp earth with her fingers. _This was not what I was expecting. _ Pulling herself into a kneel, she lifted her head and took in her surroundings. She was still shaky and felt like she had just wrestled a herd of trolls. This genuinely surprised her, as she was not expecting to feel much of anything, let alone be able to still ponder her predicament. _Or is oblivion a seriously misunderstood concept? _she wondered. As she looked, sniffed, listened, and touched, she began to realize that far from oblivion, she was most likely somewhere back on Faerun.

A deep, disappointed growl rumbled from her throat, and she scowled. _So that's your game, is it, Kelemvor? _she thought bitterly as her head sank. _You knew what I was after, and rather than give it to me, you chuck me off your doorstep like last week's half eaten apple core onto this world which you gods use as your garbage heap. Is this your punishment, Lord Death, for me leading the fool's crusade, or is it now that I've served my purpose, you wish to discard me and leave me to rot here where I can't upset your beloved planar applecart anymore, instead of granting me one small favor for ridding the Realms of Myrkul's legacy? _

She stood up, her bones threatening to snap under the sudden movement, and she let out a growl of pain. Her body still bore the wounds of her recent battles in the City of Judgment, but she resisted the urge to ruffle through her pack for a healing potion. Her physical aches and pains were a welcome distraction from the wounds in her soul, and she shifted to maximize the agony, letting out a shriek of welcome pain as she doubled over.

She glanced around, her face still a grimace as she took in her surroundings. From the looks of it, the death god had unceremoniously dumped her in some woodland scrub which seemed to blanket the foothills of a towering mountain range. Many of the trees were still bare, but some were showing signs of first budding. Early spring, then. She looked up in the sky and confirmed her guess by taking note of the constellations currently visible. Tracking the seasons by the stars was one of the few points of woodsman's wisdom she ever bothered to listen to from her foster father.

"Ok, you got me," she sneered up at the heavens between gasps of pain. "So you dump me back somewhere on Faerun, who knows why, in time to see the apple blossoms. I'm here now. The question is, where exactly is 'here'?" The heavens responded with deafening silence, and as she crumpled to the ground again, she knew she really wasn't expecting anything else.

Deciding she had enough of the pain and weakness wreaking havoc on her body, she undid her pack and snatched a healing potion. Drinking it, she felt a powerful wave of relief as gashes and bones knitted, muscles reformed, and bruises retreated. She tossed the empty flask and took in slow, deep breaths, flexing her hands and arms as the healing took effect. And as she noticed the deafening silence of the wood, she realized that for the first time in a long time, she was alone.

She stood up again, and wandered for a bit, calling out for her friends. Only the silence of the disturbed scrubland responded. Her calls became slightly more desperate, until she realized that wherever Kelemvor had dropped her, he had dropped her here alone. The fates of her companions she could only guess. Cold irritation curdled in her stomach and shouted towards the deaf heavens again.

"And where are _they, _Lord Death? Where did you send them, then? Have you cast them out of Hades to some forsaken asscrack in Faerun, or are you imprisoning them in your wreck of a realm for following me on the Crusade? Are they keeping Akachi company, or, in the case of Safiya and Gann, getting cozy in that trice damned wall you and the rest of the cunting gods of Faerun keep standing to threaten us pissant mortals with? And what about poor Okku? Where's the bad tempered talking rainbow bear god? Do gods look forward to the same as the rest of us, or is he a floating corpse on the astral like good ol' Lord Skull?" She giggled at her own foolishness. Like any gods, let alone Kelemvor, were listening. Like they ever really did. Like they ever really cared.

She felt a very small twist in her guts at the thought of her missing companions, but it was slight in comparison to the yawning emptiness that had been growing in her chest, slowly and deliberately consuming the remnants of her shattered heart. She had only known them a very short time. Not long enough feel the devastation she was consumed by in her chance meeting with Jerro in the Academy. When the warlock informed her that everything and everyone she had longed to reunite with was lost, buried under a heap of rubble in the asshole of the Mere. Nor did she allow herself to get too attached to them even before she discovered the fates of her friends turned family. She had already made the mistake of opening her heart, mind, and body to someone who in the end, took everything she had to give him and returned it to her in a shattered, arrow ridden heap.

_Never again, _she vowed calmly. _Never again will I allow anyone to do that to me. Not that anyone else ever could, anyway. He was the only one who I ever would have allowed in. No one else could have gone there. And now, even that one is gone. Truly gone. _

The mere thought of him opened a floodgate of sorrow, and the force of it all overwhelmed her. To learn of the indignant, lonely deaths of her friends was enough to send her spiraling down into despair. But then there was the horrific vision quest in the Coveya Kurg'Annis, which ultimately convinced her she _needed _to personally revive the Betrayer's Crusade, and fast. And it was Kelemvor, in the end, who's cold, unfeeling words damned her last bit of hope to the pseudo oblivion he had damned her lover and betrayer to.

Deep, low sobs wracked her body as she collapsed against a rock. The harsh sandpaper texture of its surface scraped her cheek and she felt a trickle of blood, but she barely noticed. Salty tears stung raw flesh and her teeth gnashed against her lips. Her arms were wrapped around her torso as if seeking to contain the low, pitiful moans of absolute despair that were escaping in abundance. Her murky amber horns tapped lightly against stone as her head trembled.

He had betrayed her, true. His price was his own freedom, and he gambled heavily for it. Gambled, it seemed, and lost. He wanted to be free of his past, free of his demons, free of obligations, and especially, free of his feelings for her. He had wounded her more deeply with that declaration than he ever could have with blade or arrow. But she could do no more than accept it as fact. Freedom was a thing she felt was worth just about any price. She had longed for it herself, but it was always out of her reach. When he ended up realizing that working for the Dark Side wasn't exactly going to release him to be his own man again, he turned on his new masters. And fled the scene. As she watched his form fade from sight, a bittersweet smile crossed her features. _Finally your own man again, _she had whispered after him. _As you were meant to be, nature boy. _

The bitterness at being abandoned and discarded so casually burned enough. But not as bad as discovering that his twisted gambit for freedom in the end had bought him nothing but a one way trip to the Kelemvor's screaming, twisted monument of the faithless. Fate decided that while the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep and the King of Shadows had no further concern with him, death did, and on the threshold of a new life, the twisted hands of fate brought the collapsing, ancient ceiling down on top of him. And that in the end, he was forever bound to a mad god's sadistic construct as a bare, screaming, hungering essence stripped of mind and memory. And she watched it happen before her very eyes, and could do nothing but watch in confused horror.

She threw her head back and bayed madly at the cold, black night sky. A stream of curses at the name of every god she knew of flowed steadily from her mouth. She swore, she screamed, she bellowed obscenities at the very essence of the divine, of the planes, of their "laws". Of their hypocrisy and cowardice. Of their blatant contempt for the reality that mortals were forced to endure, and the silly games the gods played with the lives of their "lessers". She cursed vilely, brought up every bit of blasphemy she had ever heard, and invented a few new blasphemies of her own. In the end though, it mattered little. She found that after a couple hours of pointless screaming at a universe that simply did not give a fuck about the mewling of an insignificant speck such as she, her voice had faded to a hoarse, crackly wheezing. All this bellowing had bought her nothing except a sore throat that could no longer break the dead silence of the chill night.

Her voice spent and her eyes now too dry to shed more tears, she heaved the last few dry sobs her body would allow, and then curled into a fetal position. Physical exhaustion crept in, and after a few last whispered curses and threats to the deaf gods, everything began to fade to black as the first light of dawn approached the sky, and her heavy lids started to close. Whether she was drifting off to sleep or death did not matter to her. She was too damned tired to really care.

_Sometime later….. _

The shadows vaguely fluttered as she drifted soundlessly through them. She wasn't sure how long she had been here or where "here" was, and for all she knew, she was traveling in circles. It had been six days, she judged, since her arrival and other than a lucky strike into a squirrel from her bow, she had not eaten anything else. Fatigued and tired, she still had no clue where she was at, nor how long she could continue on like this. She slept on bare earth with only her cloak as a blanket and pack as a pillow, and despite the cold, did not bother to light a fire except when she had shot down that squirrel. Fires tended to attract attention, and attention was the last thing she wanted until she knew where she was.

Eventually, she spied what appeared to be a trail, and she almost whooped in glee. Trails always led somewhere, and right now, anywhere was better than here. She followed it until it abruptly ended in what appeared to be a major road, judging by the amount of traffic going back and forth. It was the first time she had seen people in days, and she stopped to stare bleary eyed as merchants and travelers traveled in both directions. Humans, mostly, with a healthy amount of elves, dwarves, and halflings thrown in the mix, she noted. As she watched the parade of people stroll by, it suddenly occurred to her that she could stop someone and ask for directions. The travelers she had seen so far appeared friendly enough, and she had even seen some offer aid to others when bags, packs, or crates were dropped.

As she wandered onto the road, she looked around for someone approachable enough to risk asking. Further along, she spied a merchant wagon set up along the route, and as she approached it, her eyes grew wide and stomach grumbled ferociously. Crates of berries sat propped up against a collapsible table, on which was displayed an assortment of cakes, pies, pasties, breads, and nuts. The smell of a cooking fire assaulted her nostrils, and it was all she could do to keep from barreling into a small company of elves in her haste to get to the roadside delicatessen.

As she browsed the assorted pastries and fruits before her with genuine awe and reverence, a tall half-orc came around from the other side of the wagon with a steaming tray of fresh pies. He smiled broadly as he placed the pies on the table and brushed his hands on his apron. "Welcome, welcome!" He bellowed in a deep rumbling voice that sounded surprisingly eloquent in its simple greeting. "Coming by for one last bite before seeing the Gem of the North?"

She could not take her eyes off the assortment of hot food before her, and her eyes lingered on what appeared to be a raspberry tart. _Gem of the North? What is he talking about? The last thing on my mind right now is looking at some shiny piece of rock. _

She heard the half-orc chuckle as he continued "I'll take that as a yes, then. Just tell me what you want, and ol' Jesperth will sort you out good!" The man crossed his arms proudly over his chest, his tusks gleaming like pearls in the misty morning light.

She looked up at him, and her hand trembled as she pointed to a meat pie, the raspberry tart, and a cluster of poppy seed rolls. "I want these," she rasped, her voice barely a hoarse whisper. She tried to clear her throat and repeat her request again, but her voice would not cooperate.

"Oooohhhhh, sounds like you're coming down with something nasty," Jesperth said as he grabbed an oven mitt and scooped up her selections onto a large, wooden platter. "I got some elderberry tea brewing in the back, and with a dollop of honey, it will clear that nasty croup good as anything!" He handed her the platter. "Here you go! You just sit down right over there at one of those tables and I'll bring you the cup of tea. Before the platter was fully out of his hands she was already furiously devouring the hot meat pie, and she heard the half-orc chuckle as he disappeared around to the back of the wagon.

She sat down at one of the small, portable battered oak tables and by the time Jesperth returned with a large, steaming mug of fragrant tea, she had already gone through both pie and rolls, and was digging into the tart with ravenous abandon. "Well, well!" the half-orc roared heartily as he plunked the mug onto the table. "I've seen dwarves with flimsier appetites! You sure must have been hungry, lass!"

She took a deep swig of the tea, and true to his claims, the honey and elderberry tea felt like silk as washed down her raw, scratchy throat. The half-orc watched with wide eyed amusement as she devoured the raspberry tart and finished the tea with gusto. After letting out a deep, rumbling belch, she looked up at the half-orc and asked, her voice a little less scratchy, "How much do I owe you?"

Jesperth chuckled. "For the sheer spectacle of watching a little thing such as you devour my wares like a half starved bugbear, three coppers. The tea is on the house."

"No, seriously, how much?" she asked again, reaching in her pack for her coin purse. "That was the best damned meal I've had in ages." _And you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you it has been the only meal I've had in ages, _she added silently. Since she awoke almost four months ago in that damp, dark barrow in Rashemen, her body refused any and all food she tried to eat, often in violent fits of vomiting blood. The spirit eater curse allowed her no sustenance by normal means. She had been living off a steady diet of willpower, undead, and the occasional hapless spirit she was forced to consume to stay alive, and to finally taste real, hot food was the first pleasure she had experienced since before the siege of Crossroad Keep.

"Three coppers," he repeated with a smile, and added, "You're the first customer of the day, so consider it an advertising boon."

She fished out ten gold pieces and thrust them in his hand. "And you have no idea what a boon you have done for me just being here with your roadside cafe'." She pointed to the weather worn sign that stated "Jesperth and Rilada's Hot Eats and Treats on the Go" and added "And give my regards to Rilada, too."

His eyes brightened as he eyed the ten gold pieces in his hand, studying and weighing them carefully before pocketing them. "Well, if you insist….for this kind of money, you just help yourself to anything else you want from the table!" The half-orc walked over to the displayed food and brought back another platter of meat pie, poppy seed rolls, and another raspberry tart, which disappeared almost as quickly as the first lot had, and Jesperth continued to shake his head in amazement.

She sat back in her chair and loosened her belt a bit. Her stomach, denied its rightful due for so long, bloated out like a miraculous pregnancy. She hoped that she wouldn't puke from being too greedy, and she rubbed at her swollen abdomen in an attempt to appease any thoughts of vengeance on behalf of her digestive system. The half orc returned with another mug. "A belly tamer," he explained as he offered it to her. "One of my wife's recipes. Some old elven home remedy for tummies in revolt."

She nodded her thanks and sipped the beverage, which tasted curiously like a mix of peppermint and ginger, and something else. She drank it lightly, hoping that it would do the trick, and after ten minutes, her stomach begin to calm, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"So," Jesperth asked as he took a seat opposite her at the table, "If you don't mind me asking, where are you headed off with an appetite like that?"

She watched him for a moment, and said quietly, "That's a good question. To be honest, I'm not sure. And to be brutally honest, I don't have any clue where I am at right now." She shrugged and looked at him hopefully.

The merchant frowned slightly as he studied her. "You don't know where you are at right now?" he asked, puzzled. "Surely you must, as there are only two places you could have come from to be on this road, lass. Silverymoon or Everlund."

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. _Silverymoon? Everlund? I'm in the Silver Marches?_ She glanced around, incredulous. _What in the Nine Hells is going on? _"You're joking, right?"

"Afraid not, lass," Jesperth replied solemnly. "What, aren't you supposed to be here? If you didn't come out of Silverymoon or Everlund, then how did you get here?" He glanced around, his features furrowing heavily. "Did you get on some wizard's bad side and get teleported here, then?"

_Oh, if you only knew, _she wanted to say, but instead, she explained "I think I was in some hills wandering for a while, and I found a trail that stopped on this road. I had no idea where I was." She shook her head in dismay. _The Silver Fucking Marches? What game are you trying to play, Lord Death? _

She found herself inexplicably amused, and suddenly, she erupted into a fit of laughter. "Oh, Nine Hells, Kel ol boy," she cackled maniacally at the god of death, mocking him with every syllable. "Silver Marches? The Sword Coast is _that _way, you stupid bastard!" She jumped up and pointed westward and continued laughing. "Were you trying to send me home, you shit eating excuse for a deity? I'm no fucking ranger and I could have even pointed you in the right direction." She was now shouting, and people along the road were stopping, staring at her with sudden wary interest. She continued, paying them no attention. She was far more amused by what she perceived as a serious geographical mistake. "For a supposedly superior being, your sense of geography stinks. But, I suppose, when you're up there lording it over the rest of us, one spot on this flying mud ball is as good as another to your divine insight, is that the case?" She collapsed into hysterical giggles, and added "Ah, the irony. The fucking Irony of it all!"

People on the road were now watching her suspiciously, and a couple made warding gestures against evil and madness. Even Jesperth had backed away slightly, his eyes wide as he watched her rolling in the mud, cackling like a psychotic hen. She looked around, and saw that people were backing away, grabbing amulets and whispering prayers to their gods. She glared at them. _Save your friggin breath, you idiots. The gods could give two shits less about you. _

She felt strong arms wrap around her shoulders and hoist her up back into the chair. Jesperth whispered emphatically, "Get a hold of yourself, girl!" She couldn't stop giggling, and out of the gathered crowd, a small group of men stepped closer, their cold eyes watching her with an intensity and interest that made her cringe, and her laughter died down as she stared back at them, threateningly. Their lips began murmured prayers of their own, but the expressions on their faces were not of fear, concern, or distaste, but of holy rapture and reverence.

The half-orc growled and charged the men, swinging an empty wooden platter at them. "You filthy degenerates just get the hell away from my wagon," he roared as the men backed away. They scattered like rodents back in the crowd, but he managed to clip one in the back as he fled. The men gone, Jesperth returned to the table and slammed the platter down. "Where's the patrols when you need them?" he growled to himself as he sat down at the table.

After a moment, she turned to face him. "Who were those guys anyway?" she asked quietly, glancing over her shoulder warily, watching as the crowd slowly dispersed and traffic slowly returned to normal.

He snorted in disgust. "Cyricists," he answered, his voice loaded with contempt. "Filthy degenerate Cyric worshiping scum. They have been banned in Silverymoon, but there are rumors of an underground cult both there and in Everlund. You see them milling about occasionally, and they are easy to spot, because not a one of them are playing with a full deck of cards." He looked at her, and sighed. "I guess your little…um….outburst there must have been enough to lure them from hiding amongst the masses."

She frowned. "Why?"

"It's part of their twisted religion. They see madness as a blessing from their god, and when they see it happening, they have to come out of the cracks and holes to thank Cyric allowing them to witness the 'divine miracle' of insanity." Jesperth shrugged. "Don't ask me. That's only what I've seen and heard myself, and I've never been too interested in finding out more. I chased them away, because they were about to try and touch you to see if your 'blessing' might rub off onto them. Hells, knowing that loony lot, they would probably follow you around like some sacred prophet or something."

"Cyric and any other gods better keep their hands and blessings off me," she snarled. "I've had about enough of them and their games." She began rubbing her temples to ease the growing headache, and stopped when she saw that the half-orc was watching her with a concerned frown. "What's wrong? What are you looking at?"

"Well, to be honest lass," he began slowly, "If you have been wandering lost in the woods for a spell, you probably haven't really had a chance to get a good look at yourself, lately." His eyes dropped to the table, a bit of embarrassment creeping into his features. "I didn't want to say anything earlier. When I saw you coming over, I thought you were one of those disciples of Ilmater, who go on those holy pilgrimages of suffering and sorrow to get closer to The Crying God. See them coming down this road every now and again. Nice enough people, really honest and humble, proud of their dirt and scars and filth. I assumed that's why you were looking like you are, so I didn't press the issue." He looked up, and his eyes, a deep shade of blue, regarded her cautiously. "But after you mentioned you have no idea where you are, and after your…." He stopped, searching for the words. "Um….burst of unexpected joviality, something tells me you aren't exactly the type for painful religious pilgrimages."

_You can say that again, buddy, _she mused. She hadn't given her appearance much thought lately, as darker things occupied her mind. She assumed she was quite a mess, not having had a bath for weeks now, and the crypt-stink of the City of Judgment still clung to her. She was certain she had ceased to notice how bad she smelled, and as she ran her fingers through her hair, she knew she had enough grime there to keep the Wall of the Faithless supplied with mortar for weeks. "Guess I must look worse than even Cyric's flock," she said at last. She looked at the half-orc's expression, and it told her everything she needed to know. "Ok, then. How bad am I?"

Jesperth sighed sadly and said: "If you like, I can fetch my mirror from the wagon. I always keep one handy. My wife always tells me no one wants to buy food from a grubby merchant, especially a half-orc one, and I use it to keep my appearance as salubrious and wholesome as possible." He smiled briefly at her, then asked: "Do you really want to see?"

She wasn't too sure now, but she nodded faintly anyway. Jesperth disappeared and returned with an oblong mirror, quite large, she assumed, to accommodate his impressive size. She took the mirror from his outstretched hands, and taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and braced herself for the worst. And when she opened her eyes to face her reflection, she almost dropped the mirror in horror. Worst simply could not cover this.

Her slender oval face was partially obscured by the greasy tangle of dark hair that was a rich, dark shade of bronze when it was clean. She had to push it out of the way to see her face fully, and wish she hadn't. Her skin, normally quite pale on its own, was a ghastly shade of white that reminded her of bloated corpses. The stark whiteness of her skin accented sharply the deep grey-blue circles that ringed hollowed out eyes. Her cheeks looked like strawberries with their motley patchwork of scrapes and scratches, still raw and tender, with dirt still imbedded in some of the deeper cuts. A thin gash dissected the small, narrow bridge of her nose, and she noted with disgust that dried green mucous had crusted itself around her nostrils and upper lip. A thin coat of green slime covered her face in patches, and she guessed it was from the wet, rotting vegetation she had slept in over the past week. Her horns were caked in filth, and only a hint of their dark, ambry color escaped the crust of dirt that encased them. Lips both cracked and white trembled as she absently licked at them. As bad as her face was, it was nothing compared to the eyes that looked back at her.

In better times, her eyes had been her most noteworthy feature. Sharp and slightly almond-shaped, they were, as someone once told her long ago, a shade of green somewhere between jade and swamp moss. A curtain of dark lashes often shaded them when she did not feel like looking at someone directly. At one time, they often flashed with a light of their own when she was amused, excited, angry, or curious. But the eyes that stared back from the mirror were hollow, haunted looking pits whose color now resembled corpse mold more than swamp moss. Red blood vessels crisscrossed the whites in a savage weave. Dull and near lifeless they stared back at her with a shifting blend of horror and apathy, longing for the day when the last spark of light could forever fade from them, and they could close for good.

"A shell," she whispered, studying the alien reflection and feeling the strength drain from her limbs. "Just an empty shell." She had once, in what seemed like ages ago, been many things. Some good, some bad, some just plain insane. But the tiefling girl that stared back at her was none of these things. She had been emptied of everything, and now, a pathetic, empty husk was all that remained. _I am nothing now. Am I finally free? Is this what I sought for so long; this sorry wretch, drained of everything she ever was? _

She laid the mirror down on the table and stared off into the distance. She wondered about the curse. Did she defeat it soundly, as everyone claimed, or, in fighting and reassembling the shattered man Akachi had once been, had the curse had the last say and devoured whatever was left of her worth saving? _Why not,_ she thought blandly. _Everything else is gone. Why not finish the job and destroy whatever was left of me? _Her eyes closed, and as the mirror image filled her mind, one thought persisted. The woman in the mirror reminded her of the tortured, screaming faces of the souls she encountered in the Wall of the Faithless.

Jesperth suddenly spoke up, his voice soft. "Look lass, I'm kicking myself. I should have done it earlier, but now I know better, I'm doing it now. I'm packing up shop and taking you to Everlund. You don't need a mirror, girl, you need a healer." He began grabbing chairs and tables and tossing them onto the back of the wagon. He glanced over at her and seeing she was blankly staring off into nowhere, he repeated himself for emphasis. "No question in my mind now. You are definitely coming back with me to the city. Your state is worse than I thought. Who or whatever did this to you, girl, needs to pay, and I'm going straight to the authorities after I've taken you to straight to the temple, and then I am going to the authorities to report so they can catch whatever bastard has done this to you."

A wisp of a smile crossed her cracked, bleeding lips, but her blank expression did not change. "I wouldn't bother with the authorities," she said softly. "Trust me, this one's way out of their league. Thanks for the thought, though. As far as the temple goes, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not."

"Hmph," he mumbled. "Guess you really aren't the religious type. Judging by your apparent heritage, I suppose I don't blame you. No offense meant, of course. I have nothing against those who got a bit of the 'dark side' in their family tree. Hells, I have no room to talk!" he chuckled as he flicked his tusks for emphasis. His face turned more serious. "But you are going to a healer, regardless. It just so happens that my wife is very skilled in the white arts, and she isn't affiliated with any temple. So one way or another, you're coming with me to Everlund, and that's final!" He returned to loading up his wagon, removing any further opportunity for debate.

She instinctively was about to tell him that she went where she pleased and when she pleased, when she stopped herself and snorted. She hardly had the energy to argue, and as she watched the traffic of the main road drift by, it suddenly occurred to her, that for the first time in her life, she really didn't have anywhere to go. "Ok," she agreed. "You win."

Jesperth nodded smugly and loaded the last of his gear into the wagon before closing the back gate. "I knew you'd see it my way," he said, and went around the other side to hitch up the horse. She looked down, and realized how far lost in the void she was. The table and mirror that were in front of her were gone, and she couldn't even remember when they had been taken away. She stood up, picked up her chair, and slung it over the top of the wagon.

The draft horse hitched to harness and wagon, Jesperth hopped up into the driver's bench and circled wagon and horse around to face south. He patted a spot on the bench next to him, and she pulled herself up to sit down next to the burly half-orc. "To Everlund, then!" he smiled as he wiggled the horse's reins. The wagon lurched forward, and he started to laugh. "Gods, won't Rilada be surprised when she sees what I'm bringing home. And several hours earlier than she's expecting me, to boot!"

An hour later, she saw the distant walls of a city come into view. She hadn't realized how close they were to an actual city, and felt incredibly stupid that she had not found her way earlier. Looking at the surrounding foothills, she judged she could not have ever been more than a two days walk from it. _And I thought Kelemvor was geographically challenged, _she thought ruefully.

The half-orc turned to look at her and asked, "By the way. All this time, you bought my pies and pastries, went a little funny in front of an impressive crowd, and I'm now talking you home to meet my wife. Yet all this time, you haven't given me your name." His face erupted into a warm grin. "So, do you have a name that I can call you buy, other than lass, girl, or Tiefling Gone Bonkers?"

She looked away, and for a while, said nothing. _My name? Yes, I have a name. Or had one. But that name belonged to the girl from the swamps, the Butcher of Ember, the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep, the Kalach-Cha, the Spirit Eater, The Wolf, and a thousand other things I once was but am no longer. That name is a curse on the lips of many, and the last time I ever truly heard it spoken, it was from the lips of one who I still loved before he was lost forever to the construct of a mad, dead god. No, that name will die with him. _

Jesperth looked over at her expectantly. "Well?" he pressed. "Do you have something I can introduce you to my wife by, or am I stuck calling you lass or any other descriptive?"

_All that I once was, is gone, and all that I had is but a memory. But there is one thing, oh bastard gods of Faerun, that you left me with, that shall someday come around to bite you all in the ass. You can never take it from me, no matter how hard you try, and it will slither from my lips as I take my dying breath to curse you all. _

"Yes, I have a name," she said, a bitter, vengeful smile growing on her face. "You may call me Faithless."


	2. Enter Sandman

_Yes, I am naming chapters of the story after Metallica songs_.

(Neverwinter Nights 2 and characters referred to obliquely are the property of Obsidian. Faithless, Jesperth, Rilada, and the bath house wench are mine.)

The bath house was mostly empty when she arrived, as most of its patrons were at home or at their daily business. She was slightly relieved. It increased her chances of getting a private bath without having to pay an arm and a leg. Not that money really mattered at this point anymore. With the amount of gold stuffed in her magic holding bags, she could have probably bought the damn place. Still, old West Harbor bred frugality was a hard trait to exorcise, and even now, she railed at the idea of having to pay outrageous prices for something like a simple bath in solitude. She felt it a natural right.

She waited at the marble counter for the day attendant, her ragged fingernails gently scraping at the polished surface as she looked around the room. The walls and floors were inlaid with a mixture of marble, granite, and slate, occasional broken up by a mural or mosaic. Lush plants, some with heady smelling large blooms, sat in different corners, and some even had vines creeping along the wall, giving the place a feeling of an old elven temple. A melange of odors drifted from the main doors into the bathing area, from soap and simple, common cleansing herbs to the cloying scents of exotic oils and spices, most of which she could not name. This place was several steps up from any of the bath houses she had used in Neverwinter, excepting probably the ones in Blacklake, which she never entered anyway. Yet according to Jesperth, this place was the "commoners" public bath.

Everlund was a completely different horse from Neverwinter, she was beginning to realize. Far cleaner, for starters, she had noticed as Jesperth rode them past the gates. The cacophony of foul odors that assaulted her nose when she first stepped into the Docks District almost made her reel. Yet here, the smell was quite tame by comparison, and she wondered if it was due to a better sewage system. There was also a more varied mixture of races, with only one out of every two people she saw being human; the rest were mixture of everything from pure elves to half orcs, and few people seemed terribly bothered by the fact. Most noticeable of all, was that people wandered about with a sense of optimism and contentedness, traits she had seen little of in Neverwinter, where the atmosphere had been of war recovery and new fears of war looming.

A door swung open and an immaculately groomed half-elf in light gauzy robes stepped out to greet her. "How may I be of service to you today?" she asked as she stepped behind the counter, carrying a couple clean linens on her arm. She had the faint scent of water lilies and apple blossoms on her.

Faithless said quietly, "A private bath." _And make sure when I leave, to drain the water and have the local clerics perform an exorcism on it, _she added silently. The half-elf looked op at her in polite surprise, and quirked her eyebrows as she gave the dishevelled tiefling a once over.

"Indeed! A private bath you say?" the attendant inquired. "Even the smaller standard ones with no attendants or massages and oils will cost you seven gold. You could use the communal pools for a fraction of the cost, and there are few enough people here at the moment that you could bathe in relative privacy."

Faithless wasn't in a mood to haggle, and plopped down seven gold pieces in front of the girl. "Nothing fancy; just soap, scrubber rags, and linens to dry with. I do hope they are included in the price, as well?"

The half-elf nodded as she saw the gold pieces sparkling in the early afternoon sun that filtered through the clouded glass dome. "Of course. You also receive your own wooden comb and a teeth cleaning set." She took the gold coins off the counter and deposited them into an adamantine container, and turning toward the main doors, said: "If you will, my lady, please follow me."

The attendant led her past the communal area into a corridor and opened one of the doors, motioning for her to enter. Faithless found herself in a small stone room with an oblong hole in the floor. A stone bench, a full length mirror, and a wooden table were the only furnishings, along with a small potted shrub. She sat down on the bench, and looked up at the half-elf, and asked, "How long will it take to fill?"

"A couple of minutes, no more," the girl answered. She turned on her heel, and as she faded out of the doorway, she said, "I will bring you your sundries shortly."

_A couple of minutes? To fill a hole that sized? They either have a hidden army of unseen drones, or the staff here has permahaste cast on them, _Faithless thought as she began stripping off her pack and harness belt. A moment later, she discovered neither was true. She heard the sound of metal on stone scraping coming from the floor bath, and as she peered down, she saw a small gusher of very warm water issue from a hole in the bottom of the bath. _Wow! Some system! Didn't see that one coming. _She wondered if it was some sort of remarkable feat of engineering, or a magically fueled water delivery. The attendant soon returned with a stack of cream colored linens and a few smaller items on a tray, then vanished, closing the door tightly behind her.

The tiefling stripped off armor and clothes and recoiled at her own smell, which was far worse without clothing to absorb it. She stared over at the mirror, debating whether or not she wanted a full body examination, then decided against it. She could imagine fine enough without visual confirmation. Most of it she could see anyway without a mirror. She waited for the bath to fill, and when the bubbling finally died off, she lowered herself slowly into the steaming water with a sharp gasp, then a sigh.

The bar of soap was impressively thick and large, and as she lathered it roughly in her hair, she wondered if the attendant had thought that in her state, she would need a bigger than average chunk. The soap was quite rich and powerful, and had a strong smell of lemons. She was expecting a standard bath to simply have a gritty bar of evergreen tar soap, and was quite surprised when she didn't. She dunked her head under water to remove the soap from her hair, then ran the bar through her locks again.

Stepping out of the water, she lathered and scrubbed vigorously with the mitt the attendant had brought, flinching a few times as when she passed its rough surface over a still tender bruise. Grime, sweat, dried blood, old skin and scab scraped off and disintegrated into the lemony foam as she worked the roughed, soapy mitt over her body with slowly increasing fury. After rinsing in the bath once, she stepped out and began the assault on her bare skin anew. She repeated several times before she finally stopped, realizing she had rubbed several patches of skin red and raw and they were beginning to sting. Lowering herself back into the water, the burning became intense.

_It's not that easy, and you know it,_ Faithless told herself as she immersed herself into the warm, steaming water, surfacing with a wide eyed gasp._ Soap can only clean skin deep. Skinning yourself alive won't wash away the deeper buried rot and filth. And that's what's eating you alive. That reek that persists even when your nose is blocked. The stench that your existence has become, that chokes you even in your sleep. _

She tried to clear her mind and focus on nothing, but memories betrayed her once again, fresh and raw. Even the mild burning of her irritated skin failed to distract the flood of thoughts that came, unwanted._ The entire universe_ _is built on the fabric of insanity. A sick cosmic joke. More so than even the cynics and sages realize. And long ago, in this cackling asylum called 'reality', some supreme powers got together and chose me to discover and witness this truth for myself. Long before my great grandparents were even twinkles in their fathers' eyes. Araman seemed to really dig the set-up enough that he didn't fear the oblivion my sword would bring as he defended it. He was too stupid to realize that bringing the heavens crashing down into the hells would probably be the best damned thing that happened to the planes. And I don't even believe that would happen if the Wall was ever successfully destroyed. If it were true, and the Wall was the thread which bound the fabric of the planes together, then it's a garment unfit to wear and needs to be destroyed so a new one can be tailored. _

_Just stop it. Stop thinking about it. Thinking just does not suit you, girl. Especially in this case. You are likely to drive yourself crazy, if you haven't already started down that highway. You can't do a damn thing. You never were meant to. Find a wizard and pay for memory oblivion spell. You just might survive if you do. The other alternative is to accept what you have seen, what you have done, what you have experienced as truth, and then go completely __mad. Which seems more and more plausible. _

The billowing crests of the soapsuds had turned and ugly shade of brown, and Faithless decided she was about as clean as she was going to get. She pulled herself out of the bath and wrapped herself in the drying linens. _To forget and be forgotten, that's paradise, _he had told her in a tone that made her uneasy. Now it began to make sense. _Except you were wrong, nature boy. Neither happens like you expect it. It's not really oblivion. I really wish I could forget. I might now already be forgotten, if I'm lucky, but the forgetting myself part still eludes me. _

On the way to the baths, she asked Jesperth to drop her off at the nearest clothier, since she was pretty certain what she was wearing was beyond salvage. She pulled the parcel out of her pack and began slipping on new underclothes first, followed by a dark steel grey tunic and charcoal trousers. The material, coarse linen, felt strange on her skin. In Rashemen, she never wore anything less than thick wool, and had forgotten how light clothing could feel. She ruffled through her bags of holding for a pair of boots, and found ones to suit for now. As she slipped them on and began strapping and buckling, she wondered just how many pairs of boots were piled in the magic bags. It had always been a particular quirk of hers; any boots she found, she hoarded, as if the world might experience a sudden famine of footwear any day. She never understood why she had this particular habit, and decided it really wasn't important. Her unusual hobby saved her from having to buy a new pair.

As she reached over for her belt and harness, she stared over at the pile of discarded clothing and tattered armor. The leather tunic had once been powerfully enchanted and magically enhanced by Safiya, and had taken an unbelievable amount of abuse without faltering. It survived most of her ill fated assault on the City of Judgment, but ultimately it could not survive the wrath of the Wall and the desperate battle in her soul against the very heart of hunger. If anything beyond residual enchantment remained in it, she would be surprised. The thing was gouged, ripped, frayed in a few places. Her old boots fared little better. She found she wasn't particularly stricken over the loss. They served their purpose, and they were relics of Rashemen, a place she wanted as much physical and psychological distance from as she could get.

Examining her wyvern's hide belt and strap assembly, she was amazed to discover than despite the devastation done to her armor, the entire assembly was intact, and with the exception of the dried blood, grime, and filth on it, it seemed no worse for the wear. It possessed no enchantments except for the trace ones contained from the wyvern itself, as well as innate properties of the adamantine and darksteel buckles, clips, and rings, yet it had survived what highly amplified near invulnerable armor couldn't. She caressed the leather in near reverence, and choked back what threatened to be more tears as a bitter irony dawned on her.

She remembered the crisp day in late Marpenoth when he had brought it to her. Though he claimed total ignorance of the fact, he had given it to her conspicuously close to her nineteenth birthday. Just some old scraps left over from the hide he had worked to make new boots with, he declared, and instead of wasting the leftovers, decided the _Great Knight Captain _of_ Crossroad Keep_ could use a new belt/harness/scabbard assembly befitting her _lofty _new station. Though he tried to casually shrug the item's creation off as boredom, his voice had an undercurrent of something else, and his eyes shifted around as if nervous that she might not like it.

The craftsmanship and detail was exquisite, and a lot of work and care had gone into its making. Duskwood scabbards, darksteel hardware clamps, adamantine buckles and fasteners. Leather dyed a deep, dusky midnight purple. Simple, stylized spirals and swirls interlaced by primitive looking lightning bolts were tooled in a motif through the whole assembly. Despite his claims to the contrary, this was not created as an afterthought from wasted hide. A lot of skill and care had been put into it. As she looked at him and smiled, she saw in his face the truth of it: it was a labor of love.

She bit her lip hard as she turned the belt in her hands. It took a brutal thrust of her will to suppress the tears that threatened to blur her vision. The irony of the whole thing clung in her throat like a thick, acidic, syrupy ooze. _You managed to make something that survived everything that the King of Shadows, Rashemen, the Fugue Plain, and the schemes of a deceased god could throw at it. Why weren't you made the same way, ranger? _

For a moment, bitter anger sprang from her gut, and she almost cast the entire assembly into the pile of discarded memories that lay reeking a few feet from her. She stopped herself, and shook her head in dismay at the thought. _This is something else the gods never managed to take from you. Do you really want to give them this last little bit of yourself because you can't deal with the reality it reminds you of? And in the act, are you willing to consign this last little piece of him to oblivion? _With a deep, shuddering sigh, she set the harness down, picked up the wooden comb that sat on the bench, and started the arduous task of combing the tangled rats' nest that her hair had become.

She hastily finished the rest of her grooming, and removed the daggers, rapiers, tools, and other items from the belt and harness. Kneeling beside the bath's edge, she submerged the harness under water and used the remainder of the bar of soap to wash the crud off. On her way back to Jesperth's house, she would find a weaponsmith and pick up some proper maintenance materials for weapons and armor. For now, she just wanted to get the worst of the grunge off her gear so she could wear it again. When she was done, she blotted it with the linens and replaced her weapons and gear. It was still damp, but at least it was clean.

Fastening the final buckle and mounting her pack, she turned one last glance toward the pile of ruined clothing and the grey-brown sludge in the bath, and bid them both a less than fond farewell as she left the bath house to wait for Jesperth outside.

_Later that evening….. _

They sat around the low table, seated on garishly colored cushions. Jesperth and Rilada had both prepared the evening meal, a bean stew with fresh bread, and both were watching in quiet amusement as Faithless devoured her second helping with the same ravenous abandon she had destroyed Jesperth's pastries with.

"What did I tell you about this one, Ril?" Jesperth asked his wife as he finished off the remnants of his first bowl of stew. "An appetite that would make a dragon pop, eh?"

"Indeed," Rilada's silken, husky voice agreed. She had paused to watch the tiefling with a curious intensity that reminded Faithless of the githzerai cleric she had once travelled with. "Hunger the likes of which I have never seen before. When Jes told me you had a rather…healthy appetite, I thought he was trying to slyly get me to prepare a larger meal so he could eat the rest." She glanced at the table and waved a slender, graceful hand over the pot and two loaves. "Hunger such as yours should not be denied, certainly not in this house. Eat as much as you like, dear girl. I can see shadow of famine in your flesh."

The tiefling's eyes shifted away from the soft, calm, yet intensely piercing gaze of the elf woman. She had admitted that Rilada was far from what she was expecting when Jesperth said he was bringing her home to his wife. In fact, quite the opposite. Thinking she would be greeted by the pillar-like buxom frame of a healthy half-orc or even human matron, she couldn't help staring in open surprise when the willowy, graceful form of an elven beauty turned from her meditations on a stack of cushions and smiled serenely at tiefling and half-orc as they came through the door.

Rilada was something of an enigma. She possessed that otherworldly, nearly ethereal beauty certain elves possessed.. Long, silken hair the color of midnight was left free and unadorned, and it often trailed behind almost as insubstantial as a shadow. Skin the color of moonlight was veiled by a wispy, lilac colored gossamer wrap that merely tinted her naked body, rather than cover it. Large, almond shaped aquamarine eyes possessed what the gith called "between planes" gaze, or, as it was known in the Realms, the "thousand mile stare" that is often associated with fatigue or boredom. Yet Rilada seemed neither bored nor exhausted, but instead, seemed to be looking _through _everything, instead of beyond it. As if everything around her was constructed of thin illusion rather than solid matter. Even more interesting was her demeanor. She lacked the condescending hauteur often associated with delicate elven beauties in the presence of "lower races". Her whole bearing was calm, warm, and curious, and through it all, a trace of universal amusement at everything.

Faithless felt slightly ashamed at herself for staring so openly, though neither Jesperth nor Rilada seemed particularly offended or upset. _I have no room to talk, _she chided herself. _My own mother fell in love with some mysterious mongrel of the lower planes. In a lot of people's eyes, a half–orc and elf are far more tolerable, because at least they are natural. Not so for whatever great grandparent of mine it was who crawled out of the abyss to fuck some unsuspecting or twisted human. _Though possessing a faint trace of tanar'ri in her veins was not something that have ever really bothered her, she knew there were people in the world that thought her existence an abomination.

She ate another spoonful of stew and followed it with a bite off her chunk of rye bread. The bean stew was seasoned with some unusual herbs and spices, but it was fresh and filling, and her digestive system was happily taking it down and keeping it in. She couldn't help smiling as a memory rhyme from her West Harbor childhood crept into her thoughts. _Beans, beans, they're good for your heart, the more you eat, the more you fart… _She giggled to herself, and saw Jesperth raise an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Faithless said. "Private joke. Don't worry, I'm not planning on attracting Cyric's mob to your doorstep." _If I can help it. _

Jesperth grinned. "Oh, I wasn't worried about that. I figured what happened back on the road was just the result of shock and stress. Perfectly understandable in your state. No, I actually wondered if you planned on sharing whatever just tickled your funnybone."

Faithless shrugged. "Oh, just some silly outhouse humor from when I was a kid. Not really worth mentioning. Especially as we're eating." She ladled another serving of stew into her bowl.

"I see." Jesperth eyed the large red beans as he watched her shovel another spoonful into her mouth, and his grin became wider. "It wouldn't happen to be a certain poem about a certain legume and certain bodily function, would it?" When her face turned red and she lowered her eyes, smiling, he laughed heartily. "Well, if you are worried about that, Rilada has a mess of potions and preparations to fix that up. You name it, she cures it."

The elf woman was eating her stew quietly, but she didn't appear bothered or offended by the references to impolite body function. That serene, calm face still ate delicately, and her lips held the faintest suggestion of amusement on them. She looked up at the tiefling, and nodded. "Beans, like all things, have a duality. I shall give you an elixir as soon as you are finished, if you feel the need for it."

_Trust me, you both will feel the need for it after I'm done murdering this stew pot, _Faithless wanted to say, but instead, she just nodded, finishing her meal quietly. She started to take her dishes to the washbasin, but Jesperth put a firm hand on her arm.

"No, no need for that," Jesperth told her. "Washing up is my job around here, and I won't have you taking it from me. It's my favorite part of the evening actually. Gives me a chance to practice my singing voice while Ril does her evening salutations." He winked and glanced over at the elf. "Though how she manages to meditate with all that jackass braying coming from the kitchen is a mystery to me."

Rilada turned and kissed the half-orc gently on the cheek, and stroked his chin. "The sound of your voice when you sing, my love, might cause our neighbors consternation, but in my ears, it is the sound of sweet milk being poured upon the alter of bliss."

Jesperth ran one of his large, rough hands through her tresses and nibbled the tip of her ear. "Ahh, Rilada, when my mother said love was blind, she didn't mention it was deaf as well." He stroked her head, then got up to clear the table. "I'll get started on my bardic aspirations, and leave you two to your own business."

Rilada, after watching him for a moment, turned to the Faithless. "Come, if you please," she said as she lifted herself from the cushion. "My sanctuary is near the back door." Her gossamer gown flared and drifted behind her as she turned and walked towards the back door that led to a communal courtyard, disappearing into an archway right before it.

Faithless followed the elf into her sanctuary, which turned out to be a store room that had been converted into something resembling an apothecary, temple, and infirmary combined. Two soft cots sat head to foot on one wall. The opposite wall was dominated a cabinet and shelf containing jars, bottles, and boxes of various substances. Two exotic looking plants in alabaster pots stood in opposition at the far end of the room, and in the center of the room, a simple woven mat faced an empty wall.

Rilada motioned to one of the cots. "Seat yourself and be comfortable, Faithless, so that I may see you and learn of your ills." After she sat herself down, the elf knelt before her and took the tiefling's calloused hands into her own, turning and inspecting them. She turned her focus upward, and studied the tiefling's face, gently massaging her hands and arms while she did it. Faithless felt the muscles in her arms and hands become warm and relaxed.

"Tension," Rilada said, her voice seeming to drift somewhere else. "Your body is wrapped around your soul like choking ivy, and your spirit is being strangled in between the two." One hand reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from the girl's face to study it better. She frowned. "How long before today since you had food?"

Faithless remembered the squirrel she had killed a few days prior. "About four days."

"And before that?" Elven eyes did not waver.

"A very long time." Faithless paused, and then decided there was no point lying. "Four months."

The frown deepened, but Rilada nodded. "I see. Remarkable, indeed, that you can still draw enough breath to tell me this, if that is the case. You must have had some other way to sustain yourself."

_Problem and solution right there, elf woman. _Faithless looked away. "I suppose you could say that." She did not elaborate, and Rilada did not press her for further details.

"As you wish," the elf said as she stood up. "While serious, I sense your malnourishment is but one ill that haunts you."

_Really? I could have told you that. _Shrugging, she replied, "It's really not that bad. Nothing that Jesperth's cooking can't fix."

Rilada smiled, but her penetrating stare remained. "It would return the color of the living to your flesh, and add substance to your bones. But little else could it provide, and you are in need of much more than a full belly and a chorus of belches."

Faithless sighed and scowled. "Look, healing unguents will do me fine, if it's not too much trouble, ok?. And maybe some bandages. I can apply them myself, so you can get back to whatever it is you do about this time."_ Why in the Nine Hells did elves have to drag out even the most simple of tasks? _

The elf's gaze intensified, but retained its patience and calm. She said nothing, just stood there, looking through instead of at the tiefling. An eternity seemed to pass, and Faithless began to feel naked. The elf was using no magic, at least as far as she could tell, yet she felt as if the scroll of her life was being read aloud in a packed courtroom. There was no trace of malevolence or power in the Rilada's eyes, but the feeling that the elf was aware of a greater truth that was frightening in its simplicity. The scrutiny made her feel as if she became little more than a fading whirlwind of dust, and though she started to feel uneasy, she could not provoke the urge to shift away.

Rilada broke the stillness by turning to browse through the shelves. She selected a jar, three small bottles, and a box of bandages, and gave them to Faithless. "This vial contains the digestive aid to help mitigate any after effects of dinner. And this one contains the essences of several good food plants to provide extra nourishment." She indicated the vials in question, and continued. "This salve should be spread on any wounds you have. It will heal them without scarring. And this…" She indicated the final bottle, "will mildly relax your muscles so rest will come more easily." The elf regarded her for a moment. "Of course, if you wished it, I could provide therapeutic massage. It is known to heal more than just the pain of tired muscles. But I sense you are eager to rest tonight, and I shall hinder you no more." Bowing lightly, she turned and went to sit on the mat in the center of the room.

Faithless watched her for a moment, getting ready to thank her, but the elf seemed oblivious to her surroundings, so she gathered the items and retired to the spare bedroom Jesperth had showed her earlier.

Once in, she stripped off her clothes and got to work on the various bruises, scratches, and tender wounds preparing to scar over. The salve smelled fresh and herby, not at all the sharp, pungent medicinal balm she had expected. It cooled everything it touched, and she could feel the burning and irritation drown in waves of sweet, soothing bliss. She rubbed some on her face to take care of the wounds there, and after drinking the digestive and nourishment potions, she decided to risk self examination in the small oval mirror on the wash stand.

It was dark in the room, and only a single candle flickered, so the light was lower and kinder than the midmorning sun had been. The right side of her face was in shadow, but she could see the wet unguent glisten. Turning her head, she examined both sides of her face. The crap that had been washed off in the bath house had been hiding a few new surprises from her. A dark gash descended from her hairline to midbrow, and she decided it was bad enough to need extra salve and perhaps a bandage. The thick rime of filth that had crusted to her horns was gone, and she was now able to see she had a good sized chip in the left one. Inevitably, however, it was the large, ragged red gash on her sternum that drew her full attention.

_That's where it all began. The mystery scar on my breast that's haunted my life since it passed through my mother into me. Once a thin, silvery pink ridge about two inches in length. It was there I felt the funny tingle whenever I stepped over the black spot before the wheat fields. It is the place from where I felt that force of inescapable fate whip you down the Road of the Blade. It the true hand that wielded the Sword of Gith. Because beneath that scar of mystery, the heart of both wielder and wielded once sat in an uneasy but inevitable truce. _

Now, the angry, snaking rift of a jagged, carelessly stitched serpent bisected her breasts. The shard was gone. Ripped from her chest by curled, withered hands that should not have been there. They hadn't even bothered to put her in full sleep when they did, for she was semiconscious enough to be aware of and remember the cold, calculated vivisection later. The large scalpel that ripped through her breast bone savagely. Cold hands that carelessly pulled her flesh apart and sharply prodded around her insides until they located what they sought. The sight of the bloody shard being lifted out triumphantly. And the whole time, she could feel it going on, but her body was completely frozen by spells and restraints. She could not even scream, as her neither her vocal cords or lips could move. Under normal and more humane circumstances, the primitive surgery should have killed her. She remembered crying out in her mind for a swift end.

But it wasn't so mercifully easy, because those who were cutting her open like a freshly downed elk had uses and plans for her, and those did not involve a quick trip to the afterlife. During the whole procedure, they had sustained her with magic, keeping her alive long enough to retrieve the shard and replace it with something far worse when they abandoned her in the dark, rune filled chamber of Okku's barrow. Though only the shard was meant to be taken, the yawning void she felt beneath her breast was evidence that something far deeper than an extraplanar piece of silver had been ripped from her that day in the Plane of Shadow.

Now, beneath the five inch long gash, she felt nothing at all, just a hollow wind. She rubbed some of the salve over the wound, but she felt no cool, tingling touch of healing herbs; not even the brush of her fingertips as they traveled along the edges and outline of the vicious wound. She didn't register a heart beat, though she still could feel her pulse elsewhere. She abruptly covered it with a bandage that she wound a few times around her breast, and drank the last potion before she crawled beneath the quilt and snuffed the candle.

She could feel the last potion work her muscles into lazy submission. Her eyes closed, and as she drifted off into sleep, her body felt refreshed and whole.

Her mind and soul, however, were not, and as her body rested and renewed itself, the deeper wounds in her psyche burst open and oozed out the festering pus of nightmares and memories that infected her dreams like a plague.


	3. Wherever I May Roam

_The unnamed companions are not mine, the other characters are. After pulling my hair for weeks, I realized this was alot more simple to finish than I had thought._

The noise of the morning rush outside her window woke her from her restless sleep. Shielding her eyes from the sudden onslaught of daylight, Faithless rolled to the side of the bed and sat up in a slump. Resting her face in her palms, she waited patiently for the groggy fog of sleep to fade as she reacquainted herself with the waking world. Her legs shifted, and she felt the dampness of sweat soaked bed linens against her bare skin. Despite the cool chill in the air, her skin was clammy with perspiration, and she shivered. _So the nightmares visit me again. If I had any faith left in the gods, I might actually thank one that I woke up for once, not remembering . _

It had been a tenday since Jesperth had brought her to his home. During the first five days, she had slept the entire time, only waking up long enough to eat or relieve herself. It had been a long time since she had a full, uninterrupted night's rest in a warm bed, and her body, now free of the spiritual parasite it had harbored for months, was catching up with a vengeance. Her hosts did not seem bothered at all by her unusual hibernation, and she vaguely remembered Jesperth coming in the room, giving her a fatherly pat on the head as he placed a couple of Rilada's potions on the nightstand. Only in the last couple days did her excessive sleep wear off, and she spent most of that time cleaning and working on her weapons and gear and getting light exercise in the courtyard.

_Sleep, eat, shit, then back to sleep. It's like a second infancy, _she thought ruefully. She turned towards the mirror on the washstand, and could see in her face that the rest and recuperation were working their magic. Her eyes looked a little less sunken, and the dark rings around her eyes were starting to fade. The strawberry-like patches of scraped, raw skin had healed nicely, and the cuts and gashes had shrunk considerably. She even thought she detected hints of color returning to her flesh.

But the sleep was doing the opposite for her mind, for it was when her eyes closed and her conscious mind faded, her soul was laid naked and vulnerable to the maelstrom of memories, fears, and horrors that poured from her subconscious like a horde of undead. Twisted dreams that she could not pinch herself out of. Night terrors that left her shivering in the dark, awake and vaguely aware that something bad had happened. These were not the haunted, tortured pleas of Akachi's shattered soul that had plagued her during those cold, Rashemi nights. These dream wraiths belonged solely to her, and though her flesh was beginning to show improvements in health, the look in her eyes was still the cold, dull, listlessness of a dying woman.

She stood up and walked over to the washstand, grabbed the rag and soap, and gave herself a quick sponge bath. _I need to get out. I've been in this city a tenday and beyond two shops and the baths, I've not stepped outside Jesperth's house. I haven't even had a drink since I came. After a four month dry spell, no wonder I'm in the dregs. I need distractions. I need to get pants-pissing, falling down obliterated on some dwarven mead or Moonshae whiskey. I need more than just something to take the edge off, I need to hammer the gods damned blade into a quivering lump of metal. _She briskly dried off, dressed herself, and grabbing her harness and pack, she went downstairs.

The main room was quiet and warm, and Rilada was at the far side, trimming a strangely twisted potted shrub. The elf nodded in greeting and motioned towards the low table, where a plate of fruit and a poppyseed buns sat next to a mug of warm, spiced tea. Faithless sat down to breakfast, and watched the elf woman while she ate.

Rilada's slender hands were working a small pair of shears along the edges of the plant's foliage with an easy grace that would have made many a gardener envious. At first, Faithless thought that she was simply pruning the plant, but she noticed that the foliage was growing in a strange pattern. She had seen similar things in the gardens of Neverwinter, where skilled botanists had trimmed and shaped bushes and trees to resemble shapes, animals, or things. _Topiary. _That was what they had called it.

Faithless was curious. "What kind of shape are you trying to achieve?" she asked.

The elf woman paused, and replied, "Shape?"

"Yeah. You know. Are you trying to trim it into a ball shape, or a lion, or someone's face?"

Rilada smiled. "No. I am allowing it to follow its own lines and contours. It shapes itself. My hands and shears simply follow suit and allow it to be as it truly is."

_Oooooookay, _Faithless thought to herself as finished off her breakfast quickly. She wasn't surprised by the elf's vague response. She had come to expect as much where Rilada was involved. Jesperth had explained a few days earlier, during one of Faithless' rare waking moments, over dinner, that his lovely elven wife was some sort of monk/mystic who followed the obscure, ancient philosophy of _Sennziun. _What that philosophy entailed, however, even the half-orc was at a loss to explain, and when she pressed him further, he just shrugged and smiled. "She has tried to explain it to me for the past ten years we have been married, and I still haven't a clue," he laughed. Faithless decided that asking Rilada herself would be pointless. If the Jesperth, who had known the woman for far longer, couldn't figure it out, the tiefling thought it was a safe bet she wouldn't have much more luck.

"I'm going out today," she said to Rilada, who simply smiled and nodded in that weird, absent, yet focused way of hers. Faithless wondered, if she told the elf she was planning to set the house on fire and seduce her husband, if she would get that same peaceful, content expression. Shrugging, she left the house and headed towards the merchant's quarter.

She had long decided that some purchases, such as new armor, trinkets, and clothing, were well overdue, and she spent the first half of the day in clothier's and armorsmith's shops. She remembered, in what seemed like another lifetime ago, the problem child from West Harbor, who would have laughed at the idea of paying for something she could so easily steal. The sheer risk, thrill, and challenge of acquiring something through less than noble means was enough of a reason back then to nick anything not nailed down. Now, she was handing over gold to merchants without haggling or even giving them a quick once over for coin purses or valuables within snatching distance. _I've changed. Even petty theft for practice no longer interests me._

The merchant's ward was an experience in its own right. She had never seen so many shops with such a vast variety of goods in one district, let alone one town. Jesperth had told her that Everlund was a major trade city, second only to Silverymoon in the Marches for sheer importance and size to regional commerce. Part of it was culture shock, she guessed. Mulsantir, though on the Golden Way, was a backwards dump, and the bazaar had surprisingly little to offer that was of any interest. Unpaved, muck-ridden streets made going anywhere in the town an unpleasant experience, and the constant shroud of cold fog that blanketed the city made the Plane of Shadow cheery by comparison.

As she drifted out of the main merchant's district and into other areas of the city, she noticed another sharp contrast with Rashemen: people generally payed her no mind, and the few that did, did so with polite curiosity. The xenophobic, superstitious Rashemi barely tolerated foreigners or non-humans in their country, and when a foreigner with demon blood and an ancient, dreaded curse stumbled within their midst, it was only the fear of the ruling wychlaren and the spirit eater curse that kept her from being ripped to pieces by the locals. The Rashemi natives had to content themselves with warding gestures, hisses and spits of fear and loathing, and brisk dismissal.

Faithless wandered about the city, unsure of where exactly she wanted to go, or if she really wanted to go anywhere at all. The sounds and smells were enough to distract her for the moment, and that in itself was welcome relief. Her attention drifted to the sounds of music, both from street performances and taverns. She had always loved music, even though she lacked the talent for it herself. Music held the power to both enthrall and liberate her at the same time, and often, she would lose herself in song. A distant part of herself was drawn to the sounds, wanting to listen, dance, or simply let the music take her. As she passed by, her mind wandered to far off forgotten places she had never been, and her thoughts became like pleasant vapors.

The afternoon passed in a dream like haze, and she had lost track time and place. Bringing herself back to reality, she looked around to regain her bearings. The street she had wandered on seemed less crowded, and the area was considerably quieter than the bustle and clamor of the merchant's ward. As she cocked her head, she was certain she could hear chanting coming from the building to her right. She took another look around, and noticed different buildings bearing holy symbols to a wide assortment of Faerunian deities. Scowling, she cursed herself for being so caught up in pointless daydreaming that she wandered into the last place she wanted to be: Everlund's Temple District.

_Stupid, so very stupid of you, _she berated herself silently. _Not only have you not been paying attention to your environment, a folly that could have proven fatal elsewhere, you have managed to land yourself right smack dab in the middle of the divine vipers' feeding grounds. _Faithless walked briskly, searching for a road that led out of the district, barely able to suppress the urge to spit or urinate on the different statues of the gods that she passed. She cursed herself again as she realized she could not remember which way she arrived here from. From the looks of it, she thought that she might be in the very heart of the district. _Typical. The gods decided to fuck with me once more, for old time's sake. _

Her pace picked up till she was almost running. She saw a street that appeared to turn left, back towards the center of town, and she followed it, now running. She almost ran over a few clerics of Helm, and much to her disappointment, they moved out of her way in time to avoid a collision. _Better luck next time. Hopefully, I will catch some deity's stooges off guard and smash into them like a dwarven battering ram. _

Much to her irritation, the street dead ended at a white marble temple with blue and gold trim. She let out an exasperated sigh. _Fucking marvelous. _She was getting ready to turn when something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She glanced over, and saw two young men, both clad in blue and gold tunics, pass by a statue of a tall figure holding up a set of scales in one hand. The other hand was missing, and the handless arm hung limply at its side. The two young men paused briefly and bowed their heads toward the stone figure before continuing their conversation.

Faithless stared for a while, her guts feeling as if someone had poured molten lead into them. Her teeth begin to gnaw at her lower lip and she swallowed the lump that was forcing itself into her throat. _Temple of Tyr. The Lord of Justice. The Even-handed. _She studied the two young men, and though they were too far away to tell, she was certain that if she walked up to them, her nose and skin would experience that familiar, static, tickling sensation. _Paladins. _She was certain of it. They had that look.

Tears stung her eyes, and this time, she could not stop them. From the depths of the memory sea she was desperately trying to avoid drowning in, he came. Adamantine plate covered a tall, lean, well built sturdy frame. A shining silvery hammer was clenched in his right hand; a well worn but meticulously polished shield adorned his left arm. A slender, handsomely chiseled face the color of milk was crowned in stark contrast by neatly cropped hair the color of coal. Beneath gracefully arched black brows, eyes the hue of winter moonlight on ice glittered with dry humor, flowing compassion, and undying resolve.

She crumpled down onto the cobble street and allowed her head to hang heavy. The ghost image didn't shift, and she felt her mental hand reach out to try and touch him. Her hand slipped through him like air, and she shook her head bitterly. _Paladin. You, out of all of them, deserved your fate the least. Following me to the bitter end, despite how things turned out. How I wished you would have left before. You could have lived to see another day, lived to save another soul. But you wouldn't leave, no. You couldn't leave. Anymore than I could. And even after everything, you still loved me, even though I did not deserve it. _

Of all the friends she lost, discounting her ranger lover, the paladin's death was the most bitter pill she had swallowed since the defeat of the King of Shadows. Died trying to hold up an escape route for everyone else. So like him. _Damn you. Why couldn't you for once in your life be a tiny bit selfish? Why did you have to waste your life for my sake? I wouldn't have bothered; it's not like the world would be worse off without me in it. _She thought back her meeting with Jerro in the Academy. "He died when his back gave out trying to hold a pillar up so the others could escape," the warlock had said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You were the only one who hadn't come out from the corridor. The fool thought you'd be coming around the corner any moment. Unfortunately for him, he didn't realize you were face down in the dust of Illefarn, oblivious to the triad of gargoyles circling you." There was a subtle, nasty undertone in Jerro's voice, and though he did not say the words, there was no mistaking the unspoken accusation. _The righteous fool died for the love of an idiot girl who didn't return the sentiment. He died because of you. How touching. _

Ammon Jerro's words ripped through the teetering hope in her mind that she had anything in the Sword Coast to return to. The warlock seemed darkly pleased as he coldly observed her horror. She wanted little more than to tear that contemptuous, gloating sneer from his face, but didn't. _Because he's right. They all died because of you. Especially the paladin. You killed him, because you didn't have the guts to drive him away. You might as well have shoved the Sword of Gith into his breast. After all he did for you, it should have been your worthless back snapping under the pillar. _

She lifted her head and stared at the statue in front of the temple, and felt caustic bile rise in her gullet as she regarded the god of justice's image. _Justice? _Her hands clenched into tight fists, and snorted. _Oh my, the fucking irony is killing me. _Slowly she rose and continued to glare dangerously at the statue of Tyr. _The planes don't run on justice. Ol' Lord Skull was so very fucking right about that one. Ahhhhh, the wisdom of a fallen god..... _Faithless' face grew dark, and a twisted smile curved her lips as she strolled over to the statue. The two young paladins were further away now, seated on a bench nearer to the temple, continuing their discussion in earnest. She gazed up at the face of Tyr. Stone eyes continued to stare off into the distance.

"So," she greeted the statue, her tone rich with mockery and contempt. "Oh _Great _Tyr the Evenhanded. Lord of _Justice. _I beseech you to enlighten this stupid mortal before you. Can you explain to me the concept of justice, since that's what you are supposedly the great provider of? I'm a bit confused here. You see, I might be a backstabbing hellspawn, but I always had this perception of justice as being something that rights wrongs and gives protection and comfort to the innocent." She paused, and she thought about the incident years ago in Neverwinter involving a priest named Fenthick. "Well, most of the time, at least." She snorted, and continued. "So that's my take on it, at least. My question to you, is, as the god of Justice, honor, and all that other bullshit your lackeys wax philosophical over, how do you justify the existence, let alone the creation, of a huge, twisting, stinking, ravenous wall that devours the souls of people whose only crime in life was not bowing and scraping to some divine power? I mean, I've seen the fucking thing. Hells, my own _soul _lay screaming and twisted in the damned thing for four months, so I know what I'm talking about. And I remember quite well the screams and cries of the souls of infants and children who didn't even have the mental capacity in life to realize that they were required to bow and scrape, let alone aware that there was anything to bow and scrape to."

The Wall memories filled her mind, but her anger, growing like a forest fire, kept the grief and horror at a distance. Faces and bodies, twisted unnaturally, screaming until their voices collapsed, tormented. She let it build, then focused her thoughts back on the uncaring statue. "What. No answer? Have I given you a quandary? That holy, orderly, godly mind of yours suddenly stuck in a logical and professional rut? Or is it simply that you really don't give a fuck, and are sitting nice and cozy in your grand palace on Mount Celestia with your head stuck comfortably up your ass so you cant hear the hellish screams of the innocent on the Fugue Plane?" She spat at the statue. "That's the great truth, isn't it. That none of you or your colleagues really give a shit. About anything. Especially your own worshipers. How many faithful Tyrrans have ended up in the wall because they got on the wrong side of the spirit eaters before me? How many faithful of _any _of you miserable gods ended up in that wall, while their divine patrons sat on their shiny asses, not giving a shit? That's their reward for devotion?" She kicked at the statue, and suddenly, she wished she had a large adamantine club to bash at the stone image.

A horrifying idea popped in her head, and she gave it voice. "What about _him," _she hissed, suddenly feeling even sicker and angrier. "Your paladin who died in a valiant attempt to save me and the others. Does his soul dwell peacefully on the slopes of Celestia, the pain and torments of his life all forgotten as he basks in your radiance, or did you just forget about him and abandon him on the Fugue Plane to get dragged off by Kelemvor's toadies because he might have committed some minor slight he forgot to repent for?" Blood tinted foamy spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. She had bitten herself without realizing it. "It wouldn't surprise me. You gods can't even follow your own fucked up laws. The only certain thing in the Planes is that nothing is certain where gods are concerned. There really is no guarantee that a life of slavering away and feeding your sorry existence with our mortal bootlicking will save us from worse fates, is there?"

The cold stone remained as silent and aloof as the god it represented, but Faithless felt her limbs tremble with raw emotion. _I am Faithless. That is my name, because that is what I am now. Not who, but what. I have no faith. Not in the gods, not in their laws, not in the planes. Not in myself. After what I have seen and learned, faith in anything is a more horrific fate than the Wall, Hells, and Abyss combined. Never again. _She backed away from the statue of the God of Justice, and suddenly, her hand drew her rapier from its scabbard and she slashed out at the stone hand that held the scales.

The strike sliced a thin scratch in the stone. A normal rapier might have snapped, but hers was far from normal. Even with all the enchantments on the darksteel masterpiece blade, the damage to the statue was barely noticeable. The elements had left far worse marks in the stone, and Faithless lowered her blade in resignation. _The truth in a nutshell. All your pathetic mewling, cursing, and pitiful little attacks against the gods, and you barely even scratch the surface. Time and storm harms them more. That's the great truth of the Planes. I thought you figured that out the night Kelemvor sent you hurtling down here, you stupid bitch. _

Her futile attack on the image of Tyr had not gone unnoticed, however. She heard angry shouts, and when she looked up, she saw the two paladins stomping toward her, swords waving angrily in the air. She had completely forgotten about their presence in her attempt to defile the God of Justice's image, and turned to face them, her sword arm still limp. Both stepped in time with each other, and as they approached, she could feel the sharp tingle and prickling of their combined auras on her skin.

The taller of the two, a redhead who did not look much older than she did, rapped the flat of his sword against his thigh and spoke first. "How dare you! You step upon the hallowed grounds of the Even-Handed's temple to perform an act of vandalism on his holy image! What foul power has sent you, fiendling?" His hazel eyes burned with righteous anger, and Faithless found she had to keep herself from bursting into laughter right there.

The shorter of the two, a sandy haired half-elf, held his sword in a guarding position and said: "Indeed. Who are you, tiefling, who so brazenly comes before Tyr in broad daylight, in sight of His disciples, for the sole purpose of defacing His property?"

She smiled broadly as she re-sheathed her rapier and took an exaggerated bow. "Me?" she asked, holding her empty hands out from her sides in a sarcastic gesture to placate the two. "No one important. Just a poor, doomed, faithless soul come to give her regards to the One Handed." She glanced at the minuscule scratch in the stone and shrugged.

The redhead regarded her for a moment, then scowled. "You are without faith? Then what, in Tyr's name, are you doing _here?" _

"Oh, believe me,Tyr and his name have nothing to do with why I am here," she retorted. "Your god and his image deserve all the bird shit the pigeons of Everlund can drop. I ended up here because I got lost, and when I saw the fine stonework you have here in your temple yard, I knew I'd found what I was looking for: sparring practice."

If she had run up to this pair naked with Elminster's head in her hand and slapped them, they could not have looked more shocked and horrified than they did at that moment. "_How dare you!_" half elf gasped, his knuckles turning white has he gripped his sword tighter. "You desecrate our temple grounds, and you spew mockery towards our Lord. Were I not bound by my vows, and standing on the sacred grounds of my god, I would strike you where you stand!"

"Oh _would _you, now?" Faithless sneered. "Now that isn't very knightly of you. Threatening an unarmed opponent. But then again, I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised, coming from a lackey of the Master of the Great Hypocrisy." She stepped back and spread her empty hands out wider for emphasis. "But if it makes you feel any better, smite away. Its no worse a turn than your windbag of a god has already done me."

Redhead snarled. "If you have come here to provoke a fight, fiendling, you are wasting your time. We will not be goaded into fighting you to satisfy whatever twisted urges propel you. If you are so eager for battle, perhaps you should try the temple of Tempus. I'm quite certain the followers of the Foehammer will be more than happy to respond to your insults and degradations with the force of arms you seem to crave so."

"Who, me? I'm not looking for a fight. Like I said, just paying my respects." She glanced back at the statue. "Though I really doubt Tyr could give a rats ass about anything I had to say."

"I suggest you leave, _now," _the half-elf hissed through gritted teeth. "Our Lord is patient and just, and he will probably overlook your blasphemous behavior. But Herdor and I are mortals, and there are limits to what we will tolerate. Especially from one who is a self proclaimed unbelieving fool."

Faithless eyed them both with a mixture of contempt and amusement. "Mere mortals? And for a moment I thought you boys might be paladins." She turned to leave, and as she started to walk away from the temple grounds, she stopped and shot them both a dark, bitter grin. "I once traveled with one of your lot. A fine man he was. More than a man. He had more personal honor and a sense of justice than your lame deity ever could. What is it called when a man surpasses the virtues and and convictions of the god he bows before, and becomes more an embodiment of those things his god is supposed to uphold?" Her smile faded and she glared at them. "I can only tell you, my friend was far more worthy of worship than your cunt of a Lord will ever be. Have a nice day." With that, she turned and stormed down the street. She did not look back, though she could picture the paladins staring daggers at her as she went. _Oh, go ahead and petition Tyr to curse me, you fools. Trust me, I don't think ol One Handed could throw anything my way any worse than what has already been done. _

As she turned the corner and looked for another exit from the temple district, she realized that at that moment, she had never wanted a drink so bad in her life as she did now.

********************************************************************************

Faithless sat and sipped cautiously at the tankard of ale in front of her. She had tried to drink a small mug of ale a few days ago at Jesperth's house, and found it had made her violently ill. She could only guess that it was probably due to a four month long dry spell and the ravages of the curse. Though she wanted to get violently drunk and pass out into blessed numbness, she knew she had to take it slowly or else she would simply end up sick and sober. She had only drank a quarter of her ale, and already she was feeling a strong buzz.

Looking around, she watched as the tavern started to fill up with patrons. Rilada had told her about this place, which was two blocks away from the house. Jesperth often stopped in on his way home, and sometimes even ate here. Rilada was a strict vegetarian, and when the half-orc needed to feed his carnivorous cravings, he came here to indulge in a roast or beef stew out of respect for his wife, who hated the smell of cooking meat. Faithless sniffed at the air. From the smell, it looked like tonight's house specialty would be some sort of pork dish. Her mouth watered.

The _Grey Horse_ tavern was surprisingly clean and tame for a "working man's" alehouse. She had been here an hour and no one had so much as raised their voice. Conversation filled the room, but it was a calm, even hum. A bard at the far end played lilting tunes on his flute that gave the place an airy atmosphere of relaxation and respite. Her thoughts drifted back to her uncle Duncan's place in the docks of Neverwinter, The _Sunken Flagon_, and she chuckled to herself. By this time of day, the _Flagon_ would be infested and reeking of dock rats and local riff raff, and half of them would be falling out of their chairs. Someone would already be face down on the floor, and at least one fight would have been broken up by now. Especially when her slap happy dwarven friend was around.

_That's it. Consign their names to the oblivion you've sent your own to. Easier that way, right? You have been back for a tenday and a half, and not once have you been able to even think of their names, let alone speak them. You can curse the gods by name and title, but you can't even give your devoted friends who gave their lives for you even a mental eulogy. Because thinking of their names makes you remember, and you don't have the guts to do that anymore, do you, coward? _

Faithless rubbed her temples to stave of the sharp stabbing pains that were beginning to bloom there. They all had names. Names that once rolled off her tongue with ease. Names that she had thought of often in Rashemen, that kept her going when she believed there was something to go home to. Now those names only served to twist the daggers of guilt and loss deeper in her gut. They kept the soul wounds fresh and raw. _They are gone. Let them rest in peace. To forget and be forgotten, that's paradise, right? Daeghun seemed to think so for all those years, and as cold as he was, he survived sane, did he not? Maybe you should take a hint from your old man. _Her mind brought up an image of her dour foster father, his sharp elven face forever locked in an emotionless mask as he seemingly drifted through life like a specter. She shook her head. _No. He really didn't survive, did he? Is that what you want, to live life as a dull echo of what once was? Isn't that what the Wall does to you anyway? _

She took a deep draw from her tankard, not caring if it did make her sick. She wanted to drown her brains in alcoholic bliss now more than ever, even if it did mean spending the rest of the night in a puddle of vomit.

An hour passed, and the buzz of conversation grew louder as the tavern grew fuller. She looked down at her half empty tankard and was debating on finishing it in one swig when the main door swung open and Jesperth swaggered in. The half orc looked around the room until he caught sight of her, and he grinned as he waved to the bartender and strolled over to take the empty seat at her table.

"Good to see you back here in the land of the waking!" Jesperth bellowed cheerily. He leaned back in his chair and waited as a serving wench brought a mug of mead over and placed it on the table. He nodded in thanks and flipped her a few coppers, then lifted his mug in salute to the tiefling. She lifted hers likewise and their tankards clanked. "Here's to hoping you'll stay awake long enough to sample the variety of fine beverages the_ Grey Horse_ has to offer!" He drained half of his mug in one hearty swallow and sighed with pleasure.

She eyed his half empty mug. "Well, I'll try, but don't expect me to keep up with you if that's your speed."

He chuckled. "Oh, alright, lightweight. Ill slow the pace down so you can keep up. Wouldn't want to have to sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, puking down my back as I carry you home. Ril would be quite pissed at me."

"Really?" She found the idea of the serene elf monk getting even slightly irritated at anything hard to imagine. "Well, we wouldn't want that. Guess we would both have to find some nice quiet alley to sleep it off in. Don't want your lovely wife thinking I'm a bad influence on you."

"Ha! She would probably be thinking the opposite!" Jesperth took another sip from his mug. "From the smells in the kitchen, it looks like Doril is cooking up some pork chops. Looks like Rilada is gonna get a night of peace from my singing after all." He studied Faithless for a moment. "Since you haven't had a nice decent cut of meat since you've been here, I'm guessing you'll be sticking around for dinner too, eh?"

She nodded. "You guessed correctly. Haven't eaten anything since breakfast. Been out walking a lot today, so I'm starving."

Jesperth raised his brows. "Oh have you? Finally got out and got to exploring this fine city of ours, did you?"

"Some of it, yeah. Had to do a bit of restocking. Only really saw the merchant's quarter and the temple district, though." She decided she would not mention the incident at the temple of Tyr. She did not want her host to think she really was cursed with madness.

"Glad to hear it," he replied. "It's a start. Rilada and I were getting a bit worried about you when you were sleeping so much. Guess you were a lot more run down and dogged out than you seemed, eh?"

_That's an understatement, _she thought. "Yeah. Hadn't really had much sleep before. Guess my body was catching up." She decided to change the subject. Thoughts she did not want were beginning to creep in. "So hows the roadside eatery business going?"

Jesperth shrugged, taking another drink. "It's a living. Picking up a bit as summer is coming. That's when you get a lot of traffic in, as the mountain passes have thawed and the orc and giant tribes tend to leave the roads alone, since there's easier pickings elsewhere. Soon, Rilada's summer wine will be ready to sell. Its a big hit with travelers, especially elves and cultured types looking for a bit of refreshment."

"She makes wine?"

"Aye, that she does, and let me tell you, I've had wealthy people from Waterdeep wanting to get a hold of large quantities of the stuff. They say its comparable to some of the vintages from Evereska, or even Evermeet." Jesperth smiled, a bit of pride creeping into his voice. "Remind me to take you down to the cellar where she makes it to have a sample. Trust me, once you've had even a sip of that stuff, you'll never look at wine the same."

"I'll hold you to that," Faithless said after a swig from her tankard. "Though I must admit, Rilada never struck me as the drinking type."

The half-orc rolled his eyes and snickered. "Oh, you won't find her in any alehouses, for certain, but I tell you, she is something else when she's had a few glasses of wine. Its about the only time she starts waxing philosophical and it makes any sense." he grinned. "Or maybe its just I get too drunk to tell the difference." He drained his mug. "So you'll be wanting a full dinner, I take it?" She nodded, and he waved the serving wench over. He gave the girl an order for two full meals and two mugs of mead.

"Mead? I'm not even finished with this ale," she said after the serving girl left.

"Yeah, but better to get it now. This place gets packed around this time, and you'll end up waiting a while to get served," he told her. After a few minutes, the girl returned with two full mugs. Faithless set hers side, lifted her ale glass, and toasted the half-orc as she finished the dregs of the ale.

The two talked for a while as they waited for their meals to arrive. Faithless had not had much interaction with her hosts during the week she had spent there beyond short conversations over dinner, so she asked Jesperth about himself and his life. It seemed strange that she knew little about her benefactor, and she found herself curious. The half-orc was amused, and seemed quite pleased to share his own tale.

Jesperth and Rilada had been married for ten years. She had originally hailed from Evereska, and her family was less than approving of her choice in a mate. It never deterred her, and she seemed rather accepting of her family's rejection. Jesperth, who always been a prodigy in the culinary arts, saw his destiny in providing hot, fresh food to weary travelers along the Silver Marches' busy highways. It was his passion, he said, and from the tone of his voice, Faithless thought he might even feel a certain spiritual reverence in his work.

Rilada had gained knowledge of ancient elven healing arts from her father, who was a well respected healer back home. She had been expected to follow in his footsteps, but instead became fascinated by the teachings of a long dead _Sennzuin _master named Chaieren. She left home to seek out others who shared this philosophy, and after fifty years of wandering the realms, she finally found a remote, long forgotten sect inhabiting a monastery in the Galena mountains. She spent a whopping one hundred years there in study and contemplation before deciding there was nothing left to learn, and everything left to experience. It was during her wanderings through the Silver Marches that she had met the young half-orc on the roadside, when he had first started his business just after leaving his home in Targos, in Icewind Dale. Later, when their relationship had blossomed would she tell him the scent of his gooseberry tarts and the lusty bellow of his voice as he hawked his wares drew her to him like a bee to honey.

"She was serious as a judge when she told me that, too," Jesperth added with a smile. "I'm telling you, the bard's don't have a clue what they are talking about. The keys to the fair maiden's heart aren't won through dragon slaying or duels to the death with rivals. You win them with you mother's jealously guarded cookbook!"

Faithless smiled as she listened to the half-orc share his life story with her. She admitted she was growing quite fond of the man despite knowing him so briefly. She certainly felt more comfortable in his presence than she had with any of the companions she had traveled with in Rashemen. His whole demeanor was refreshingly lively, especially after four months dwelling amongst the cold, paranoid Rashemi. Jesperth possessed not only a hearty appetite for life and love, but he also had a very keen, open mind and healthy wit that was both amusing and disarming. When he brought up the topic of religion, she listened with interest.

"The gods?" he asked thoughtfully. He shrugged. "I've been known to offer up a prayer or two on occasion, sure. Sometimes to Waukeen when business is slow, sometimes to Tymora when playing a game of dice with the lads." He grinned mischievously. "And sometimes to Sune, when Rilada tells me she has a headache." He roared with laughter and took another drink. "But actually getting into one god? Nah, not for me. My religion is cooking, and until they find a patron deity of the divine kitchen, I'll stick with something I can truly believe in: a well seasoned roast with the right trimmings!" As if responding to some secret invocation, the serving wench appeared with two plates loaded with pork and veggies.

They ate their meals and drank their mead, and before she could finish her first mug, the girl brought two more. She eyed it warily as it was placed before her. The food had soaked up most of the effects of the first cup, but she still felt highly buzzed. She wasn't certain if she would make it through a second cup. _But if I don't, at least I'll pass out trying. _She smiled and saluted Jesperth as she tipped back the rest of her mug, and with a nod of approval, he did the same.

Faithless and Jesperth spent the rest of the evening in the _Grey Horse_ drinking house mead and playing dice games for fun as they shared jokes and talked about nothing in particular. By the time they left, they had drank themselves silly, and they broke the pleasant silence of the night singing bawdy tavern songs on the walk home. When they stumbled through the door, Rilada was remarkably amused by her cheerfully blitzed mate, and smiled broadly as she took the half-orc's arm to steady him and led him up the stairs.

As she watched the elf struggle up the stairs with her large husband, Faithless collapsed on a pile of cushions, smiling. She was well drunk, and assumed that tomorrow she would pay dearly for indulging. But it didn't matter at that point. For the first time since the siege of Crossroad Keep, her mind was empty of everything except the pleasant hum of excessive drinking. No dreams or nightmares came that night for her, and for those blissful few hours, she captured a fragment of that precious but elusive grail: oblivion.

*******************************************************************************

The afternoon sun felt warm against her skin, yet it did nothing about the growing chill inside her. Faithless sat on a bench in the public gardens, her blank face a stark contrast from the vivacious explosion of spring flowers surrounding her. Birds chirped and chattered as they swooped from tree to tree, and metallic blue butterfly landed on her left horn briefly before fluttering off. She paid no attention. Her mind was far away in a place where spring never came.

_It's time to go, _she thought blandly. _I've tarried here long enough, and I can't stay here. Jesperth, Rilada, Everlund, the Silver Marches. They are all vibrant, living entities, and I am not. The longer I stay, the more glaringly apparent it is. And everything that crosses my path seems to die. _

The past few days only deepened her resolve to leave. She was growing very fond of Jesperth and his strange, but intriguing wife. The daytimes were spent at the house with Rilada, watching her float about in her gauzy gowns like a serenely beautiful specter as she tended plants, mixed herbs, tended to clients (who seldom paid, or were even expected to), or shared some bit of "wisdom" with the tiefling. The elf had taken an interest in her guest, often stopping to ask Faithless general questions out of the blue that had no bearing on the moment at hand. Sometimes, when she went out to the courtyard to spar with her shadow, she would turn to find the elf in the doorway, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

Faithless had once asked Rilada about her beliefs. The elf seemed amused at the idea of her philosophy being referred to as similar to a religion. "Beliefs? I have none. _Sennzuin? _Its not a system of belief, it simply is. Belief is said to support the fabric of the planes. _Sennzuin _laughs at the very idea of existence of a fabric. It is hubris. The gods are the dreams and illusions of the planes, which in turn exist as the universe tries to understand it's own essence. The universe exists because cannot perceive otherwise. Perception creates reality, and when perception is removed, the truth can be seen for what it is." Rilada stated as if she was stating something as obvious as the time of day or the color of her eyes.

_She's worse than Aldanon, _Faithless thought as she tried to wrap her mind around the elf mystic's maze of words. _Even Aldanon could be eventually driven to make a point and come to a conclusion if you pushed him hard enough. _Rilada went back to mixing some sparkling dust into a jar of unguent, and Faithless was left more puzzled than before.

Still, she had to admit, she liked the elf. She couldn't explain why, even to herself, but there was something about Rilada that resonated with some dim, long forgotten piece of her soul. The woman was a knot of contradictions that seemed to harmonize rather than oppose, as if there really was no difference between black and white, day and night, inebriation and sobriety. Faithless was both confused and fascinated by the simplicity of the woman's life, as it hinted at things more complex. Or so she thought.

By nights, she usually sat in the _Grey Horse_ with Jesperth; drinking, eating, and playing dice or card games. The half-orc was far more down to earth than his wife, but was no less interesting. He seemed unbothered by many of life's drudgeries, despite having to endure them daily, and was more than content with his lot. But contentment did not equal boredom and monotony, and when he shared the details of his daily routine, he could put most bards to shame with his flair for turning the dull into an epic adventure.

Now she sat in the springtime sun, knowing that she had to leave that night. _I like them a lot. They __have become like family in less time than it took me to grow attached to my old ragtag band of misfits. And there lies the problem. Attachments have a habit of dying and leaving you holding the empty glass after you've drunk your fill. Even if somehow they manage to survive the disasters that keep coming your way unbidden, would you really want to risk fucking up their lives? You have a habit of doing that to people, too, it seems. _

And then, of course, there were the dreams, both surreal and terrifying in their detail. They were no longer content to torture her from sleep: they now lingered in the daytime, an ever present panel of judge, jury, and executioner in a trial that never seemed to end. The more she tried to adjourn the court, the heavier the prosecution argued and accusations flew. Everlund was a place of hope, progression, and lucid optimism where people who knew in their hearts that dawn was always just over the horizon, if you bothered to look. She could barely lift her head to see beyond the tips of the grass.

She had told Rilada and Jesperth that morning of her plans. While the half-orc looked a little saddened at the news, he nodded in understanding. "I'll bet you probably got folks waiting for you somewhere, and I wouldn't want to be keeping you from them." Faithless looked away. _Only ghosts waiting for me. _Rilada seemed neither upset nor pleased, and strangely, not even surprised by the sudden announcement.

Jesperth had taken her to a livery where he knew the owner, and she purchased a sturdy bay mare at a discount. She spent the rest of the morning buying provisions and gear for the road, including potions and trinkets and loading them into her saddle bags. After lunch, Jesperth had suggested she check out the public gardens before she left, since it would be a shame to leave Everlund without a quick stroll amongst the springtime's finest.

Faithless took a deep breath and looked around. Fine as the gardens were, they did not soothe her soul or calm her mind. She decided she had lingered here long enough, and she got up and left. There was one last stop she needed to make before she returned to Jesperth's home to say her farewells. She exited the garden entrance and headed for the public baths.

******************************************************************************

That evening, as the sun was submerged halfway below the western horizon, Faithless finished packing the saddle bags. Jesperth had decided to send her off with a few days worth of pies and pastries, and Rilada had given her a couple bottles of her special wine to take as a going away present. She was forced to buy an extra saddle pack to accommodate their last minute generosity. The half-orc and his wife watched from the doorway of their house, their arms wrapped around each others waists as they watched their guest making her final preparations.

"You sure you don't want to stay another night and leave in the morning?" Jesperth asked, a touch of concern in his deep voice. "Night just doesn't seem to be a great time to begin a long journey."

"I'm sure," she replied, fastening the last strap of the pastry pack. "I dance in the shadows. Nighttime is second nature to me." She turned to face the couple. "Are you sure you won't be willing to accept some form of repayment for putting up with me as long as you did?"

The half-orc snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You've been pretty good company! Its payment enough seeing you doing so much better than you were when you stumbled out of the Nether foothills. I had to admit, I was a tad worried."

"Well, if that's the way you see it, then I guess I'm lucky I stumbled right at the spot where you set up shop," Faithless replied, a deceptive smile crossing her face. Both of them had refused her attempts at giving them money in gratitude for their hospitality, but she was not diverted so easily. In the bedroom she had been sleeping in, she left a large pile of gold and a few gems on the bed with a note informing them that like it or not, she was repaying their kindness, and that was final. The amount of gold was unknown, as she simply emptied one of her bags of holding out onto the bed, but it was a small fortune, of that she was certain. Gold had lost much of its glitter in her eyes, but it might bring a smile to the half-orc's face, and that was enough reason for her to casually part with it. _I've left too many debts unpaid. This is one that won't be. _

"If that it how you see it, then yes, credit the concept of fortune," Rilada said in a voice that had grown ethereal. "I, however, do not think it such a casual twist as the roll of a supernatural die." She nuzzled her husband's chest with her nose and lips like an affectionate kitten.

Jesperth brushed his wife's hair and kissed the top of her head. "Well, I'm just glad to see you able to leave under your own power, even if I am a bit sad to see you go, lass," he said after a moment. "I wish you good fortune and a safe journey, however. And you know, if you ever find yourself again with the urge to wander the Marches, you know where to stop by for a decent meal and a game of liar's dice!"

Faithless swung her body up and seated herself in the saddle. She looked at the couple for a few minutes, taking in their faces one last time before she left. A pang of regret stabbed at her gut. "You can bet your horse and wagon on it," she finally said. As she turned her horse around, she caught them waving one last goodbye, and for a moment, thought she saw a wet glint in Jesperth's eye. She rode off down the street, and as she turned the corner, she finally heard their door close.

Faithless exited Everlund through its Bridge Gate. Selune was near her fullest point, so there would be enough light to travel by. Even if it had been the new moon, she still had her darkvision to guide her, and a charm for the horse to see by as well. The road stretched westward, where it would bypass the High Forest and the Evermoors and continue into Yartar. From there, it would terminate in the town of Triboar, which sat at the junction of several other roads going all directions. A couple tendays journey, at least. _Better get started, then. _

_And when you get to Triboar, then what? _She asked herself as the bay picked up the pace. _Crossroad Keep is out of the question. You gave that place up the minute you stepped into the King of Shadow's lair. West Harbor was a burnt out husk last time you saw it. Neverwinter? No way. If I am lucky, they have declared me dead, and I'd like to keep it that way if possible. Maybe in the future, when this whole war has been forgotten. But not now. So where the hell do you go now, oh homeless and faithless one? _

She decided at that point it really didn't matter where she ended up, only that she had to return to the Sword Coast. Despite having nothing to return to, she felt in the depths of her soul, that she had unfinished business to attend to.


	4. Sanitarium

_And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear  
You shout and no one seems to hear  
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes  
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon_.

_Brain Damage—Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon _

The sun was starting to set, and after riding all day, Faithless decided to give herself and her mount a break. She steered the mare off the road towards a thick copse of trees that would provide some shelter from the winds blowing in off the Evermoors and dismounted to set up a small, makeshift camp. She staked the horse to a nearby stump that was surrounded by enough green grass to keep it happy, and started on her own lean-to.

When the fire was roaring, she sat down next to it and opened up her food pack, taking the last of Jesperth's pastries out and setting them on her lap. As she ate them, she realized that this would probably be the last good bit of chow she would have for another tenday, if she had kept up her current pace. She had left Everlund four days ago, and while she still had her dry provisions to keep her going for a while, she realized she was going to miss the half-orc's cooking genius a lot more than she cared to admit.

As the last ray of the sun vanished and violet dusk crept in, Faithless pulled her cloak around her shoulders and leaned up against the pile of saddle bags under her shelter. The fire crackled and spit for a while until it finally settled as the last of the moisture in the wood she fueled it with evaporated into nothing. Her eyes glazed and went out of focus, and for a moment, phantom images of the friends she had traveled with for two years manifested at the far side of the fire. She blinked and sat up.

They were gone.

_Just a hallucination, _she told herself briskly as she slapped the right side of her face. _You were falling asleep thinking about them, obviously. It's to be expected. Too much quiet time on your hands. Should have hired a bard in Everlund to keep you company. _

She leaned back again and folded her hands over her stomach. Some time dragged on, and her mind started racing again. Images and sounds flashed before her mind's eye and ear with dizzying speed, and she sat up, trying to shake them out. The dwarf warrior smashing a chair over a Greycloak's head during a drunken brawl at the Flagon. A squeal of rage as the druid elf's badger companion was kicked out of the tiefling thief's bedroll. The deep, uninhibited laughter of the paladin in one of those rare moments that he did find something that funny. The elven mage and the gnome bard debating over whether or not Elminster wore underwear. The hellish glare in the warlock's eyes as he faced his arch nemesis. The alien healing chants of the githzerai cleric. The sorceress pulling at her hair over some minor slight. The blond farm girl holding her shortsword in a white knuckled grip at the sound of an owl's hoot. The images came faster and more furiously, and it took a sharp rap on her head from a flattened palm and annoyed growl to slow them. Eventually, they started fading until only one was left. But that was the worst one of the lot, and it lingered like the smoke of a funeral pyre in a thick fog despite her desperate attempts to quench it.

The ranger was scowling in the corner of the Flagon, his ever present tankard of ale not far from his calloused hand. The tavern was packed. The chair next to him sat empty as it always had. It was the only free one in the whole room. She walked over and asked him if he minded if she took it. He sneered that if he was in the mood for a wench, he'd be at the local brothel. She smiled back and told him to give her regards to his mother there, and then tried to take the chair from the table. He threw his legs over it to prevent her. She jerked harder. He pressed harder. She insulted and threatened him. He insulted and threatened her. She dumped his beer over his head and took the chair as he jumped up in annoyance. He grabbed her by her ponytail and slammed her against the wall. She twisted her knee up and rammed him close to his groin. He toppled over and his weight dragged her down too. Duncan had to come over and separate the two, before major blows were exchanged.

After three weeks at her uncle's place, it was their first direct interaction. She would never forget it, and for a brief moment, she was held in thrall to the memory's sheer power. It would not be thrust away, no matter how hard she tried, and she was forced to reckon with it. Alone.

"Ahhh, love at first sight," she remembered bitterly. "You were lucky, nature boy, that my aim was not so good. Otherwise your voice would have sounded like Neeshka when she's thrilled." The memory image did not respond, and after a few minutes, it faded away. Her neck and palms were damp with sweat.

_I gotta do something. This is driving me nuts. _Faithless searched her mind for something distracting, and found the place where she stored dirty jokes and offensive songs she picked up. _That's it. I'll sing. I have a singing voice like a troll's death screech, true, but there's no one here except me and the horse. _She remembered a song the gnome had written about her least favorite member of the Nine, and grinned. Taking a deep breath, she belted out the tune several keys off:

_In Neverwinter lives a lad so fair, _

_Never a day has he out of place hair, _

_Lovlier than a maiden can bear, _

_Sir Nevalle, We Are Unworthy, Sir Nevalle _

_Hides in the castle swamped with the dead, _

_His unblemished hands shaking in dread, _

_That tomorrow he won't get to warm Nasher's bed, _

_Sir Nevalle, We Are Unworthy, Sir Nevalle! _

She smiled as the phantom image in her mind faded, and for a moment, was drown out by ill-sung verse and mental imagery that the song always invoked. She breathed a sigh of relief and started to reach for a bottle of Rilada's wine, when her hand froze in horror as she stared across the fire. It was _his _face this time that stared back over the fire at her, and unlike the other hallucination, his image lingered on even after she blinked, for a few moments before it vanished. It was a few moments later before her hand responded to her will and brought the bottle of wine out of the pack. She was shaking violently as she uncorked it and took a deep swig from it.

_I'm just seeing things, you know? _She told herself. It provided little comfort. _Maybe this bottle will kill it better than your awful singing will. Drink up, demon bitch! We got ourselves a few friends to drown. _She took another deep drink off the bottle. Jesperth hadn't lied when he said Rilada's wine was like no other. It went down smoother than silk, and the taste could not be described accurately without doing it injustice. She put the cork back in the bottle and set it to her side as she reached for her bedroll and laid it out.

It wasn't long before the booziness of the wine started to fog her awareness, and as she laid back on the covers of her bedroll, she felt her mind start to drift away. The fire's warmth relaxed her, and its gently dancing flames were hypnotic. A breeze rustled through the treetops, and she heard an animal shriek in the night. Predator? Prey? She didn't know, and found she cared less. Faithless was feeling...just fine.

A large, rough hand ran through her hair. Hot damp breath caressed her neck, a prelude to the roughened patch of facial stubble that would inevitably begin to tickle. Another roughened hand reached around and grasped a breast. She heard and felt his low, deep growl against the base of her skull as she felt his pelvis grind and harden against her thigh. She breathed deeply. His scent filled her nostrils with its melange of tanned hides, ale, smoke, charcoal, and raw sweat. _You're looking a little cold, there, swamp wench, _he murmured in her ear as he started to pull the ties on her shirt lose. _And it just so happens, I'm in a mood that might help warm you up. _His hand slid down her opened shirt. _When are you _not _in the mood, dogbreath? s_he playfully retorted as she started to turn over and reached out for......

She sat up with a start and looked at her bedroll. Empty and cold. What in the Nine Hells? She shook her head violently. _A dream. I was dreaming. Had to be. _

_But it felt so godsdamned real! I heard him. I felt him. I even smelled him. Nothing smells quite like he does. _

_You dreamed you felt him. You dreamed you heard him. The smell you dreamed too. Or have you forgotten he is as dead and gone as it's possible to get in the Realms? He's now less than a ghost. You were getting ready to dream fuck a memory. And what a memory! Or have you forgotten that he abandoned you like a stale beer and wanted to kill you on top of it?_

The fire was still blazing. Less time than she had suspected had passed. _Dreaming. That had to be it. _She felt a shiver run down her spine, and she grabbed a large chunk of dead wood and threw it on the fire. It flared up in thanksgiving, and she retreated under the blankets of her bedding as she watched the log be consumed. _No more dreams, no more dreams, no more dreams, _she chanted rhythmically in her mind, in the hopes that repeating it over and over would make it so.

***************************************

She started to drift off to sleep in the saddle, but the mare hit a rough patch of road, and the resulting jolt jerked her from her daze. She blinked and looked around. It did not appear that they had gone far. She concentrated, trying to remember how long it had been since she had left the copse of trees. Four days, maybe? She had lost track. She had not slept for the past couple of days, and fatigue had screwed up her body clock.

She had not set up camp the previous night, preferring to latch a darkvision charm to her horse's bridle and keep riding through the night. She had no choice. Her mind would not allow her rest, and she found it easier to keep on riding instead of staying still and resting for a night. That's when the memory demons came. Wine was not driving them back, and the harder she tried to banish them, the more aggressively they forced their way into her consciousness. The others had relented a bit, but _his _were the worst, and they came more frequently and with such a vengeance that her body ached from the recollection. _Because you lost him twice. And thus, have double the acid to throw on that open, festering wound that won't close. _

The mare's pace had slowed considerably, and Faithless knew the steed was getting tired. Horses lack the same will people did when it came to driving one's self to collapse for nothing. She decided she would stop at the next watering hole to allow the beast some time to cool off. She scratched the horse between its ears and gave it a comforting stroke along its neck. _Just because I am coward running from my dreams, does not mean I should take it out of you, poor girl. _The mare snorted in weary agreement.

It was a couple more hours before they came upon a stream, and Faithless dismounted and led the horse over to drink. The mare gulped at the water greedily, sometimes dunking her head in it and then shaking it off, soaking the tiefling in the process. "I deserve that," she said as she extended the lead and tied the horse to a tree. She patted the mare's rump and walked away.

Despite the mild warmth, the sky was grey and overcast. Studying the clouds, Faithless was wondering whether or not it would rain. That would slow down her progress considerably, as many parts of the road up ahead would become a quagmire. She wasn't sure if she wanted to risk resting for a few hours and end up stranded, or push herself and her mount further until they passed the worst areas likely to be hit. She pulled out her map and examined it. It seemed there were enough rough patches from here until a day's ride from Yartar that pushing ahead would make no difference. Folding the map back up and stuffing it back into her pack, she started looking for a decent place to set up camp.

After finding a spot that was elevated and far enough from the stream in case of a flash flood, she set up her lean-to and began doing some simple stretches to loosen her muscles and aches from constant riding. After she was finished, she drew her rapier and dagger and then summoned her shadow for some sparring. The exercise felt good, and it cleared her mind to the point where the entire world faded except for the dance of blades. Darksteel and cold iron whistled against the wispy, smoking swords of the shadow form. They tumbled, feinted, parried, dodged, and slashed for what seemed an eternity. Faithless felt beads of sweat dripping against her temples and wiped it away with her forearm. The shadow thought it had been given an opening and struck, only to have its attack swiftly blocked, and before long, Faithless was back on the offense. Eventually, the shadow made a serious error and dropped its guard to attack when it should have blocked. Smiling, Faithless drove her rapier and dagger into the black form and waited for it to dissipate.

She frowned. The shade should have been evaporating to return to the Plane of Shadow where it would regenerate, but the dark form held its shape and dropped its arms to its sides. Instead of growing less substantial and fading away, it grew darker and darker until it was near solid. Faithless backed away, confused. _Well, this never happened before, _she thought, growing a little worried. _What in the Nine Hells is going on here? _

The shadow started shifting, and at first, she thought that perhaps there was some delay in it returning to its home plane. But it was changing shape, its outlines shifting and morphing away from a shadow likeness of its creator to something completely different. The horns shrunk, the chest grew broader and flatter, the hair pulled back into the head. Limbs grew taller and longer, hips narrowed as the shade began to take on a decidedly masculine shape. She backed away two more steps, her sword and dagger held up in a guarding position. She was not liking this new development one bit.

The shadow stopped morphing, and suddenly, a wave of color banished its normal shades of black and grey. Like a wizard's prism spell, a cascading color storm enveloped and tinted various parts of the new form. Dark greens and browns and greys seeped into its clothing while wash of ruddy flesh tones painted the skin. Chestnut and amber swirls dyed hair and eyes their respective colors. Darker umbers placed a slight shadow along his jawline.

Her bowels felt as if a glacier had been forced through them. The new form before her was all too familiar. In many ways, more so than her own shadow was. But instead of looking like her own shade, it looked like someone else. Someone she knew very well. Too well. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Relentless little bog wench, aren't you?" The shade asked with barely restrained contempt. _His _voice. "Wasn't enough you killed me twice. Third time's the charm, so they say." He looked down at his abdomen, and as Faithless followed his gaze, a strangled gasp escaped her throat. There were two large, gaping wounds in his torso. One longer, made by her rapier, slashed diagonally across his breast; the other, from her dagger, oozed from his solar plexus. Suddenly, several clouds of dark green mold erupted from the wounds, and the cloud spread until it covered his entire form until he looked like a shambling mound. As quickly as it spread, the mold began to eat away at the form, reducing its contours and size, and abruptly, the entire form imploded and collapsed in a burst of green dust.

It was gone.

Faithless did not move for several minutes, as if struck by a paralysis spell. She blinked. Nothing. No shadowstuff residue. Not even a faint dusting of green mold dust to prove anything had been there. _It wasn't my shadow. I killed him. I fucking killed him. And the Wall devoured him again. _Her body shook uncontrollably, and her weapons fell from her hands to the ground. She followed them shortly after.

And screamed.

**********************

Later that night, Faithless sat before the fire, her arms wrapped around her knees in a desperate huddle as she rocked back and forth. Her saddle bags remained unpacked in a pile, as since her encounter with the shadow that afternoon, she was neither hungry nor tired. Her eyes were glazed, her pupils constricted in abject horror.

_That wasn't him. It was a hallucination. Get a grip, you stupid girl! _She chastised herself silently. _A hallucination dredged up from that blob of jelly you call a brain. Just like that dream. _

_It was no hallucination, it was my shadow! _

_Since when does your shadow turn into your dead, estranged lover? Think! Get some damn sleep. You're cowering from your own imagination. _

_But I killed him. And saw the green mold of the Wall devour him again! It came from his wounds to eat him alive. Wounds I created. I killed him three fucking times! _

_Did you? Thats funny. I don't recall you doing anything but watching him leave the sanctum. Betrayed his new master just as he betrayed you. Three times? You didn't kill him the first or second time, let alone a third. That was your shadow, and you're seeing things, so go fetch your godsdamned bedroll and get some shut eye, OK? _

Faithless felt tears roll from her eyes, but did not feel them welling up from her chest. She gnawed at her knuckles until she tasted the salty tang of her blood. _I did kill him. Both times. And today. _

_Falling rocks killed him the first time, you silly bitch! He even told you that before his second death. And since that second death was pretty damned final, don't you think it's a little out of the realm of possibility to kill him a third time? _

Her fists flew up to her temples as she boxed her head in a desperate attempt to drive away the memory image of his last moments of existence. His face contorted in an eternal scream as the wave of mold rushed over him, sucking him deep within the wall for good. Only an outstretched hand holding a piece of another of the Wall's victims remained. His expression would forever be frozen in that rictus of horror. _Shut up! Shut up! No more! _She slammed her forehead into her knee repeatedly until she could both feel and hear her skull ringing.

_He's gone. He was gone before the slabs of Illefarn rock ended his life. Or are you forgetting that he couldn't hightail it out of that Keep, and out of your life fast enough? He didn't want to be tied down to you and your fucking three ring circus of an existence. Can't you accept that? _

_I accepted it long ago. It wasn't about that. It hurt. But sometimes that's what it takes. I knew he hated the idea of being tied down to anything as much as I always have. Fuck knows he had gotten himself into some serious entanglements. I would have been happy had he escaped. But he didn't. Thats the real bitch of the whole scenario. Because I killed him. I deprived him of his chance to be free again twice._

_I thought we both agreed on the fact that a big chunk of rock did the job. _

_And how did that rock fall? It fell because of the colossal amount of energy released when I slew the old King. It was my hand that wielded the damned sword that struck the killing blow. And brought the whole fucking sanctum down on our heads. I killed him, and I killed everyone who stood with me that day. Gith's Sword. My hand. Killing blow. End of story. _

_Logic was never one of your strong points, girl. _

_Logic? The planes turn by neither logic or justice. Myrkul said it. Kelemvor made it perfectly clear. And I experienced this truth for myself. There is no rhythm, no reason, no rhyme. Just cold, fucked up reality that dooms everything chained to it. _

Silence. The part of herself that she had come to think of as The Voice of Cold Reason retreated back into the recesses of her of her mind. It was happening more of late. Various aspects of her psyche were becoming more and more detached from the whole, and she found herself having to argue with each fragment as a separate entity far removed from their former place as chips in the mosaic that was her persona. Sometimes the Voices spoke in turn; sometimes they all shouted each other down, each trying to drown out the other in a chorus of pure chaos.

The Voice of Pointless Guilt, as she had come to know it, had won this argument, and after a few minutes, it too retreated back into the dark place that spawned it. Her mind was blessedly silent for a few moments. Then the Voice of Growing Concern chimed in. _And which of us Voices, dear girl, is yours anymore? Or don't you know? _

_A better question would be, do you really even care? _Asked the Voice of Stone Apathy.

_Oh, you should care, all right! Talking to yourself and then answering yourself is a sure sign you're losing your grip on reality! _The Voice of Sheer Panic piped in nervously.

"_Shut the Hells Up!!!!" _Faithless snarled as she clawed at her forehead in a futile attempt to rip her own skull open and tear the Voices out. "_I am _not _fucking crazy! You all are!" _She paused, the irony of her own words striking hard and deep, and the Shattered Host in her mind responded in a symphony of hysterical, discordant laughter.

*************************************

Rain lashed down and Faithless was as drenched as a swamp rat in high tide. Her skin was blanched from the cold and damp, and despite her hood being pulled over her horns, droplets of water still dripped from the tips of her nose and chin. The Evermoor Way was being visited by the seasonal mid-spring rains that often made the road a river of mud in some parts, and her mount, while enjoying the torrent of refreshing rainwater on her hide, was still moving at a cautious plod.

She saw few travelers; most were smart enough to have seen the storm coming and decided to spend a day or two somewhere else to avoid it. Traffic on Evermoor Way's was about a third of its normal volume, mostly limited to hardy merchants and bands of mercenaries undaunted by the weather. She studied them with casual interest, always careful to keep her hood over the top part of her head. She had learned that outside of Everlund, people in the southern part of the Marches, especially this close to the High Forest, were not very tolerant towards tieflings. A week earlier, she had been confronted by a small band of mercenaries who spotted her horns. They harassed and threatened her, and when they unsheathed their weapons and came at her, she had lost what little patience she had left and decided they needed to learn just what the fuck they were dealing with. Wrapping the shadows around her and stepping between them, she emerged from them a moment later and quite mercilessly dispatched a particularly irritating loudmouthed axe wielder without fanfare. The ease she slew him with told her that this was a band of amateurs; when she vanished before their eyes, they stood dumbfounded and looked around in confusion, instead of immediately backing into a defensive formation and activating any enchanted items they might have had. When they turned around to see her standing casually over the quickly dying corpse of their companion, they fled. She checked the corpse. Sweet fuck all. Not even a minor healing potion, and the weapons and armor were of laughable quality. Dismayed at being attacked by a group of half-wit yokels instead of professionals, Faithless wiped her blade's on the dead man's tunic and left the scene without a second glance back.

During their taunts and threats, however, she did learn one thing: It had been only fourteen years since the fall of Hellgate Keep, and memories of that citadel of abyssal depravity were still very fresh in the minds of several in the area. Tieflings around this area tended to be a product of some of the more twisted rites and commerce that went on there. Had she known earlier, she would have probably not laughed at the obscene gestures and curses some travelers directed her way, and made an effort to disguise her horns.

It wasn't her first fight, though. She had battled a couple trolls along the way who were migrating south from the Evermoors a lot more since the giants had moved in. They had provided some sport and a welcome distraction for a short period, but the rush had quickly worn off, and she was once again alone in a mind that was more and more dissociating from the world around it, trying to escape the world within.

Faithless glanced up at the dark steel grey sky. From the looks of it, the rain was here to stay for a while, and finding shelter would be the wisest decision. She pulled out her map and unfolded it, doing her best to shield the parchment from the steady rain. Judging by the location where she had broke camp that morning, the Evermoor Way's largest inn, The Calling Horns, should most likely be perhaps another couple hours ride. Rain mist shrouded many of the hills and woods, but she suspected, had it been a clear day, she probably would have spotted it in the distance. A mild rush of warmth coursed through her body at the thought. A real bed, hot fresh food, and most importantly, strong drink. Especially the drink.

The mare tossed her head and licked playfully at the falling rain. Faithless scratched her between the ears and patted her neck. The horse's skin felt delightfully warm and smooth, despite the cold dampness, and as she stroked its damp hide, it had occurred to her that she had been with the mare for three weeks and had not even given her a name. _Three weeks? I should have been in Triboar a week ago. _The thought was sobering. Had she lost that much time? She had several periods of blackouts since she left Everlund, and while troubling, the fact that they lasted longer than she could account for was downright frightening. She could remember a lazy summer day cutting a subtle hole in the bottom of Ward Mossfeld's new boat when she was fourteen, but was at a loss to remember two days last week. She couldn't even dismiss it as road boredom. It was not a case of endless hours of travel being compressed into one bland picture; when she tried to think back, glaring black holes in her memory stared back. It was not the fact that she couldn't remember anything;that in itself was a blessed relief. It was the sheer unexplainable dread about what lurked in those black holes of dreams, and the knowledge that sooner or later, whatever lurked there would come crawling out.

She turned her attention back to her mount and its namelessness. As she combed her fingers through its coarse, damp mane, she asked it "So, girl, what would you like to be called, since I like to be on a first name basis with anyone who can put up with my shit longer than a day?" _How fascinating. You refuse to even let the names of those dear friends who loved you so, out of that dusty crypt in the back of your skull, yet you are worried about naming your fucking horse?? _The Voice of Scathing Condemnation sneered.

A razor sharp laugh echoed from the Voice of Self Mockery. _Naming your horse but forgetting your own? Oh, if anything shows you're away dancing with the fairies, it's that. You're going as batshit as Safiya. At she he had an excuse. What's yours? _

"They are dead," she whispered to herself. "She is not. Names are for the living."

_Of course they are. That's why you no longer have yours. You're not even a name anymore. You're a vague concept now, _Self Mockery retorted.

_Yeah. Faithless? Try Pointless instead. _Yawned the Voice of Stone Apathy.

She glared ahead, not bothering to try and silence them. The Shattered Host, as she had come to know the disembodied internal racket of her fragmented psyche, had become harder and harder to quiet lately. Eventually, she grudgingly relented. When the Shattered Host babbled and bubbled, it kept those thoughts, musings, and memories she wanted to bury at bay. It was a trade off of sorts. At least the Voices were her own.

She chewed on her lip thoughtfully when the turn off for the Calling Horns came into view, and smiled. Perhaps she wouldn't even have to put up with the Host for much longer. If the innkeeper kept a large supply of hard liquor, she would drown them in their own bile and maybe have a night's peace for a change.

********************

She sat in the corner of the bar and quaffed down her second tankard of dark ale, releasing a juicy belch as she tapped the bar counter to signal the bartender for another. He paused and gave her an incredulous look, but nodded and refilled her cup without comment. She tossed a few coppers on the counter and started on her third beer. At the rate she was going, she would probably be a completely legless blob of jelly pissing her pants before too long, but she didn't care. The ale was filling her head with a pleasant vibrating chord that was quite soothing.

She had given the innkeeper enough gold to rent a room for a week. Faithless decided she had enough of the Evermoors Way for a while, and felt a week of getting inebriated while letting the mare have a well deserved rest was in order. Maybe she might even figure out where exactly it was she wanted to go in the first place.

Leaning back against the wall, she did a quick survey of the tavern room. A mixture of weary merchants, eager travelers, and hardened sell-swords filled the tables and benches. She noted that no one took any notice of her, and relaxed a bit. Before she came to the Inn's front gates, she dug an old green flannel that had once been a sling and tied it onto her head like a pirate's scarf, disguising both horns and ears. The casual observer would have thought her little more than some dirty local stable hand with delusions of swashbuckling.

Satisfied that she was attracting no undue attention, she let her gaze drift absently over the room before turning back to her ale. She was halfway finished when her awareness started to drift randomly across the room, catching snatches of conversations before their speakers voices drifted back into the communal drone. One reedy voice in particular caught her attention; an elf speaking to his human and dwarven companions in exasperation as he tried to describe the humorous consequences of a prank played in his youth on one of his elders. The conversation itself wasn't interesting, but she found herself suddenly drawn back to a memory of a very different elf trying to explain away a very different sort of prank.

_The elven wizard rolled his eyes at Nevalle. "Yes, I _have _read the letter she sent to Nasher, and while I wasn't aware what was in it before it was sent out, I assure you, the entire thing was simply meant in jest." The squeaky clean liaison of the Nine did not smile. "A 'jest'? Lord Nasher did not think it very amusing when he spilled his wine all down the front of his new Calishite silk in horror after reading this letter." Nevalle flapped the parchment angrily in the air. "So shall I tell Lord Nasher to expect more 'jests' from his newly Knighted Captain, then?" The wizard's hands waved placatingly. "Of course not. I think she now realizes that the Neverwinter nobility does not share her...sense of humor in these things. But for the last time, I assure you, she is not planning on converting the ruined temple into an alchemist's laboratory for agents of the Zhentarium to use as a base for testing their newest mind altering drugs on the local population..." _

Her lips parted into a wicked grin as she downed another healthy swig from her tankard. She had been hiding nearby in the shadows while observing the argument. She had never seen Nevalle so pissed off, and her body tingled with pleasure at the sight. _Fuck him if he can't take a joke, _she told herself. Nasher had forced her into this by knighting her and thus, chaining her to the Keep and Neverwinter's service despite her objections. She made a promise to herself that she would make him regret that decision. _If old baldy thinks I am going to quietly slip on his yoke and fall in line with the rest of his ass licking toadies, he's in for a very rude awakening. _

Faithless frowned deeply. This random reminiscing was they very thing she had hoped strong drink would kill. She swirled the dark nutty ale in her tankard and decided that she was in need of something a lot more powerful. Signaling the bartender, she ordered a double whiskey.

The amber spirits burned her throat like alchemist's fire, but they also cut through her mind like a freshly whetted sword and left only that pleasant humming in their wake. After a while, her head felt heavy and limp on her neck, and she leaned back against the wall to keep from sinking off the bar stool. The doors from the inn's guest quarters open, and three figures emerged, wearing simple but immaculate robes. Clerics, from the looks of them. As quietly strode over to an empty table, Faithless tried to discern any trappings of a specific religion, but her vision was too blurred to notice anything but the colors. Their robes were of different hues and styles, so she assumed they were probably of different temples. A serving girl came over with three earthenware cups and a jug of water. Water. In a tavern that served spirits strong enough to knock an ogre on its ass. The thought brought forth another distant memory, and even the whiskey haze could not restrain it.

_The dwarf snorted. "Can you believe that, lass?" he asked incredulously, shaking his head and draining his full tankard in one quick motion. "Waters. I hope to the Hells that ain't the secret to fighting like that." She arched her eyebrow. "And if it is? Does that mean you'll be giving up your drinking, then?" The dwarf was taken aback, as if she had just said something rude about his mother and a fire giant. "Nine Hells, lass! What the hell do you take me for, some tree-hugging leaf munching copper elf wannabe? What's the point of learning new ways to smash someone's head in if you can't enjoy a fine jug of mead with them after the fact?" "That's the spirit," she laughed and toasted him. "Speaking of which, I'm not likin' the look of those dock rats that just walked in. They stink like Luskans. I say we finish these tankards and go see if they fight as bad as they smell." "Ha! Thats what I like to hear!" the dwarf roared. "Let's see if this time you can land on your feet when you get tossed into a stack of kegs!" She shook her head. "Land on my feet? I was so fucking wasted that last time, I could barely _stand _on my feet..." _

She was finding it harder to shake off her memory visions now that she was getting drunker. It felt like she was trying to wade through a violent tempest at sea after foolishly jumping ship and then trying to swim back. She tried to turn her attention away from the three priests, but another wave of memory crashed against her face and pulled her in its undertow.

_She looked at him incredulously. "You really heard that one when you were still a boy in training at the temple?" she asked the paladin. "Did you have to have your ears washed out with holy water for hearing it?" He blinked. "Ears washed out with holy water? Whatever for? Because I overheard the high priest and his assistant sharing a moment of off color humor in private?" He shook his head and smiled. "Tyr certainly would not punish His faithful for having a healthy sense of humor." She studied him for a moment. "If that's the case, then have you heard the one about the two Luskans and the magic hole on their ship?" His cheeks flushed a bit and he chuckled. "Yes, it was very popular during the war amongst the ranks of the soldiers." He shifted his gaze away, still flushed, but smiling a little. She was intrigued. "Ok. Since you seem to know all my jokes, why don't you enlighten me with one of your own?" He was quiet for several moments, and she briefly wondered if she had finally offended him. She almost fell over when she heard him quietly respond with: "A Helmite, Banite, and Tyrran walk into a festhall, each with fifty gold pieces in their coin purses..." _

The paladin continued to tell the joke, but much of his voice was lost as she sank deeper into the waters of her inner storm. His face became blurred, and eventually disappeared as the fathomless depths of despair dragged her down.

Booze scented tears stung her cheeks. Abruptly, she jumped up off her barstool. _Ive had enough of this shit, _she cursed silently. She asked the barkeep for three bottles of the most potent spirits available, and he returned with three clear flasks filled with a bright green liquid. She recognized it immediately. _Absinthe. Well, what the fuck. Can't make you any crazier than you already are. _She paid him and took the bottles with her as she staggered back to her room.

************************

The first bottle of absinthe lay empty at her feet. She was slumped in the corner, her head lolling from side to side. Ribbons of drool slid from her slack mouth onto the front of her shirt. Her thighs slapped wetly together, and with the detached amusement of one who is dangerously intoxicated, she realized she had urinated all over her herself. If she had the motor skills left that were needed for it, she would have laughed.

_Are you fucking daft? _Screamed the Voice of Sheer Panic. _Ooooh, look what you've done now! You've become terminally drunk! You've poisoned yourself! _

_Now wasn't this a bright idea! _Sneered the voice of Self Mockery._ Well, which one of us is going to drag her sorry ass over to the pack so she can get an antidote and a purgative before she passes out for good? _

The Voice of Self Preservation groaned. _Looks like its up to me, yet again. Come on, you stupid bitch. Move. _She felt her arms and legs move of their own accord as her body leaned forward into a graceless crawl over towards the pile of bags. Hands and fingers rummaged through one container that was filled with small vials. _That's, it, that's a good girl, _Self Preservation patiently encouraged. Now_ the real trick_ _is to figure which one of these little concoctions is going to save your sorry life. Seeing how you cant see anything beyond one inch in front of you. _

She grabbed a few bottles and held them close to her face before vaguely recognizing one as a general purpose poison purgative. Uncorking it, she started to lift it in the general direction of her lips, but her fingers were uncoordinated, and it slipped from her grasp and shattered onto the cold stone floor in a spreading puddle.

_Oh no, you aren't getting out of this so easy, sweetheart, _Self Preservation snarled. _On your hands and knees! _Faithless felt her head force itself down on the puddle, and she lapped at the antidote like a reluctant dog. She felt tiny slivers of broken glass slice past her tongue and down her throat as she slurped. The pungent flavor of the potion mixed with the coppery taste of blood.

_Just your fucking luck, _laughed the Voice of Self Mockery. _You suck down a concoction that it meant to save your worthless life, and end up swallowing half the bottle in the process. Good thing you are wearing your regenerative ring today, eh, or you'd be well up shit creek without a paddle. At least it will mend any damage those little slivers will do on their way to your ass. _

Her tongue and throat tingled as she felt the ring's regenerating enchantment force the foreign shards out and close the tiny slashes they had caused. A large glob of saliva bubbled in her mouth and she started choking and spitting the glass pieces out onto the floor in a bright pink foamy stream.

_That was a very close call, _Self preservation sighed, retreating back into deep pocket of her mind where her base instincts slept until needed.

_Why did you even bother? _Stone Apathy drawled flatly. _It's not like you really give a fuck anyway if you live or die. _

Cold Reason snorted, still sulking in her corner. _I'm surprised she even listened to any of you. Count your blessings. _

A few minutes later, her stomach lurched violently and a heavy, slimy deluge of bright green, bitter tasting vomit surged out of her gullet and splattered all over the floor and her shirt. She puked up until all that came out were dry, empty retches, and her body, having finally rid itself of the toxins, switched to hiccups of relief.

Still wobbly, she sat up on her haunches, and then collapsed backwards with a flat thud and closed her eyes. The sharp taste of bile clung to her mouth. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and a faint groan creaked from her throat. _I will regret this tomorrow, _she thought with distant certainty.

_Oh, of that, you can be certain, _the Shattered Host hissed in eerie unison. _We will all make you pay dearly for that little stunt. Did you really think you could silence us by pickling what's left of that brain of yours? _They suddenly burst into laughter. _Inviting the Little Green Fairy to the party just shows you've lost any sense you might have still had. _

"Fuck you," she tried to snarl, but the words were mutilated into a guttural growl by the time they had reached her lips. She tried again. "Just leave me the fuck alone."

_Leave you? _The Host shrieked through her head, and her temples started pounding savagely. _You clueless bitch, we _were _you, at one time, before you decided to kill what was left. Did you think that you could casually murder the person you were and try to bury the evidence, and not suffer the consequences? _

Her eyes flashed open, and with a sudden chill that cut through her drunken confusion, she realized she was no longer in her room, but staring up at a dream version of the dome that was the roof of the Illefarn sanctuary. Right as it started collapsing down into the chamber. Right as it prepared to end the lives of just everyone who ever meant something to her. She tried to struggle and scream against the vision, but her body no longer obeyed her.

As the ancient, moldy stones began their silent descent down towards her head and sent her into the pit of poisoned dreams, she heard the shrill, maniacal laughter of the Host became a harsh, painful whisper. _You knew what was coming when you laid down and accepted the reality of the planes as they shoved it in your face without a fight. We are the price of your terminal stupidity, girl. _

_*********************** _

_A balmy early dawn breeze stirred the curtains and tickled her nose. Sitting up in bed, she rubbed her eyes and yawned. Duncan had thrown a wild party in the Flagon last night to celebrate her victory against Lorne and subsequent acquittal of mass murder, and she was feeling the effects of her no doubt excessive revelry. Her mouth felt like a wrestler's armpit. She turned to reach for the glass of water she usually kept on her nightstand, and with a start, realized she was neither in her own room, nor was she alone. _

_He was already sitting up, and had been studying her with a strange expression for some time, it seemed. The weak morning light obscured some of his face, but she could still see the suggestion of a smirk forming on his lips. "Well, now, this certainly is a novel experience," he mused. "I've woken up in bed with wenches I didn't remember, and some so ugly that I almost begged the furball to come chew my arm off so I could retreat before the beast awoke. But this will be the first time I've ever woke up next to a wench where both of us were still dressed." _

_She looked down and realized she was not only still clothed from head to toe, her weapon's harness still remained securely fastened and her dagger was still in its chest strap sheath. A quick glance around told her that she had somehow woken up in the ranger's room. She turned and gave him a mocking smile. "Got too drunk to handle me, eh, nature boy?" She asked snidely. He snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, swamp girl. You're as revolting as your uncle when you drink." The lack of acid in his tone and quick glance away told her he thought otherwise. "Besides, if I'm gonna stuff one to a __wench, I'd rather she be fully awake so I can feel her claws in my back as she screams __about what a __great fuck I am." He laid back against his headboard languidly and folded his hands behind his head. "Of course, if you ask me nicely, then I might just be willing to show you exactly what I'm talking about. But if that happens, try not to scream too loud, or else you'll wake the poor paladin." He twisted his face into an expression of mock pity. "Now that would break his poor old heart, wouldn't it?" _

"_Get over yourself," she muttered. "You couldn't handle the ride." She had to look away from him, though, because the combination of his husky voice, strong male scent, and outstretched body was making her seriously think about taking him up on his offer. She licked her lips in frustration. If it wasn't for the fact he was such an irritating prick at times, she might have taken him up on the offer long ago. _

"_Oh yeah, that's it," he drawled from behind her. "You go ahead and keep telling yourself that, and maybe eventually, you'll even start to believe it. But when you actually want to get honest with yourself and admit you want me like a dog wants a bone, you know where to come." He paused. "That is, if I'm still around....." _

Faithless woke abruptly. Her hair obscured her view, and she brusquely pushed it out of her face so she could see where she was. The room was sideways and the stone floor filled half of her vision. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and looked around. She was no longer in his room at the Flagon, but sitting on the floor in her room at the Calling Horns, the reek of stale urine and drying vomit replacing his earthy smell. Her bed remained pristine and empty.

His voice was fading from her mind, but the words still lingered. _That is, if I'm still around. _She slammed her head into the bedpost and let out a strangled cry of grief. "You _fucker!" _she sobbed. "You fucking _traitor! _It wasn't enough that you fucked me and turned on me to get back at my uncle, was it? Nor was it enough that you got to gloat over my broken heart before Garius and everyone, either. No. You had to go that extra step by dying in that moldy shithole right after I finally let you go, and make sure I showed up to watch what remained eaten away." She wiped her face with her sleeve. "You claimed it was because of Duncan, but you must have borne me one hell of a burning hatred too."

_Oh, now there's a capital idea, _The Voice of Self Mockery cooed. _Blame the ghost of the ghost of your late and lamented lover because he's gone and you're cracking up like the roof that squashed him. By the way, good morning, sunshine. You look like shit. _

_You should listen to our snide jester, here, _The Voice of Cold Reason suggested. _You really should stop pining over the fact that your bastard of a former flame is as gone as they get, and move on. And you really do look like shit, and stink to high heaven on top of it. Go take a bath, for fuck sake. _

"_Shut the fuck up, all of you!" _She screamed, and slapped herself so hard her ears began to ring. The Voices chuckled in response, and Faithless started slamming her head into the bedpost in frustration. The inner chuckling erupted into mad laughter.

A sudden knock on the door startled her. "Hello? Is everything alright in there?" An older male voice, concern in it. She stared blankly at the door for several moments, not quite comprehending. Another sharp rap. "Hello? Are you alright in there?"

After another moment, Faithless croaked "Yeah, I'm fine. Go away." The Host snickered within.

"It's not sounding fine from out here, miss. Are you in trouble? I can call the staff up if you need them."

"I said I'm fine! Now will you kindly fuck off and go pester someone else?" she snarled.

There was a sharp gasp, then a pause. "Hmph. Well, I never...." the man's voice trailed off and she heard his footsteps grow further away. Faithless dug her fingers into her palms and looked around the room. She hoped sincerely that he was not going to go fetch the staff. The streaks of green vomit were drying on the stone, her packs were in disarray, and one of the bottles of absinthe had spilled onto the expensive Calishite rug that lay by the bed. Not to mention the room reeked of piss.

The Shattered Host chided her. _Oh, now look what you've done. Your raving seems to be attracting attention. Next thing you know the whole inn will be up here breaking down your door, and then they will see you in all your loony glory! The guards will knock you out and you'll be dragged off to the asylum where you can slap and piss yourself to your heart's content. _

_Or worse! _The Voice of Sheer Panic shouted above the others. _What if those creepy Cyricists followed you here? Or others of their church are staying here? They might sneak in and steal you away to some dark, demented temple and perform some twisted ritual on you! _

_Maybe you should just admit defeat and join the church of Cyric, _the Voice of Scathing Condemnation suggested. _Gods know you would certainly fit in with the whole "madness as a blessing" dogma. They might even make you a saint or something. _

_Ahh, now there's an idea, _Cold Reason mused. _Join the lunatics of the Dark Sun, and as an added benefit, you can avoid the Wall, since officially, that would make you one of the Faithful. You'd certainly have to change your new "name", though. _

"I'd sooner join the damned in the Wall then bend my knee to any god," she hissed in irritation. She remembered her last encounter with the ranger. _Forget about the gods, and they forget about you, _he had told her. _Oblivion makes a better bedfellow than most. _Had that been his motivation for everything: a deep rooted nihilistic urge to self destruct borne of self-hatred and regret? He did not resist his fate, he had thrown himself in it. He welcomed it. _So that was your game, eh, nature boy? To charge headlong into the void, and take everyone foolish enough to care about you with? Well, you got your oblivion and probably took a lot of people along for the ride. _

_All that time you traveled with him, and you didn't see that coming a mile away? _Sneered Scathing Condemnation. _Maybe if you would have pressed him more on the nature of his "debt" you could have caught him before he fell. He slipped you more than enough hints when he went on and on about Luskan, and you didn't get a clue then that something was not right in ranger land? _

"I couldn't have known," she whispered, but deep down inside, she wondered. _Were the signs visible to everyone but me? Could I have been that blind? _

_Of course you were blind! Hells, the paladin wanted you, and you didn't figure it out until it was too late. _Scathing Condemnation snorted in disgust. _Not that you ever really deserved it, mind you. What he ever saw in you is a mystery that he took with him to his cold, lonely grave under tons and tons of Illefarn stone. Poor, poor, paladin. _

She shook her head violently. "No," she whimpered, chewing her lip as bitter tears coursed down her cheeks. "I didn't know. Honestly, I didn't know." The Shattered Host responded with cruel laughter, and Faithless cringed.

After a while, the Voices fell silent. Eventually, she pulled herself up and looked gingerly around, as if afraid of waking a sleeping beast. Her fear was well founded, though the beast was not sleeping in her room.

The beast was lurking inside of her.

****************************

That night, she lay naked and awake in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. A single candle flickered. Her breath was shallow and shaky, her body rigid. The Shattered Host was in an uproar, and she could no longer make out any individual Voices; just head splitting pandemonium. She had drunk half of the remaining absinthe, disregarding her previous night's ordeal. It took the physical edge off of her epic hangover, and that was enough.

She could hear sounds coming through her open window, but she didn't pay any attention. The chambermaid had come in when she was in the communal baths and cleaned up last night's mess, and cracked the window to air the room out. A clean, dry herbal smell had replaced the stench of vomit and urine. Faithless briefly wondered how horrified, if at all, the maid had been when she entered the room. She decided she really didn't care.

Smells from the kitchen stirred her stomach, but she ignored it. Other than her time in the bath, she had not left the room, and really did not feel hunger was a good enough excuse to do so now. In fact, at this point, she had decided, the entire inn could be on fire, and she wouldn't budge. She felt faint surprise that she had even left to bathe.

_Should have given into the spirit eater curse, _she thought bitterly. The Host paused for a minute, as if surprised to hear the words even muttered inside the confines of her skull. _Yes, that's exactly what I said. I shouldn't have bothered trying to fight it. I should have devoured Akachi. I would have become something worse than an abomination. But by the hells, I would have had something to show for it. Revenge. Revenge against the gods. The planes. The realms. Myself. _

She got out of bed and walked over to her packs. Her mind was now filled with nightmare images of the Wall. This vision had constantly haunted her during the course of the day, and nothing she could do would make it go away. Mold covered faces and horridly twisted body opened their mouths to scream, no sound came out. She looked up, and tried to open her mouth to shriek, but her face was frozen in horror. There in the wall, mouthing their silent agony, were the faces of everyone she had ever cared about. Duncan. The farm girl. The tiefling. The gnome. The mage. The dwarf. Daeghun. The druidess. Bevil. Aimee. Retta Starling. Jesperth. Rilada. The gith. The paladin. The ranger. Her head shook in disbelief. The _paladin? _This couldn't be real. Above them, she saw the twisted, broken form of her own soul and choked.

_No! This is all wrong! _ _Most of them aren't even faithless! By the hells, they all had gods that they had faith in! Especially the paladin! _She was certain she was shouting at the top of her lungs, but only cold silence greeted her. She crawled up the Wall's face to where her loved ones were squirming. Hands were reaching out and grabbing her, pulling her down, and she had to kick at them violently to reach her comrades. Suddenly, the silence was rent in two by the cold, emotionless voice of Kelemvor. _No. You will not. The only soul you may take from this wall is yours. _She growled in response and continued her ascent. The wall convulsed violently, and she was thrown off of it's face in a shower of bone flakes, mold spores, and dust. Another voice tore through the silence: the dry, reedy rattle of Myrkul. _The planes don't turn on justice, girl, _he hissed mockingly. _Besides, little mortal, you have no room for indignation, seeing as you put them there yourself._

The vision faded, and Faithless hurriedly dumped the contents of her back pack on the floor. Swatting the majority of the junk aside, she picked up a bag of holding that she had marked with a purple slash. Opening it, she reached in and grabbed the only thing she knew was in there. Fingers wrapped themselves around the silken hilt that seemed to be eerily forged to fit every line and curve of her hand, and she drew it from its demi-dimensional resting prison to examine it.

The dim candlelight became a near blinding flare along the fluid, silver surface of the blade, and Faithless squinted. The sword was flawless and serene, showing no signs of its former trauma. The blue white tendrils of will that once held it together when it was reforged from a pile of shards were gone, as were the ghost outlines of the missing pieces. A edge was wickedly twisted into an alien form that once bit into the flesh of a near demi-goddess' enemies, and split a great planar race in two. She ran the tip of her finger along the edge, barely touching it, and held her bleeding pinky up in wonder.

She knelt and placed the Sword of Gith on the floor before her to study it. She had no idea how many hands had wielded it before part of it came to rest in her breast. Three she knew for certain: Akachi, Ammon Jerro, and of course, Gith herself. The others, if any, had been lost to the winds of time. The githzerai and githyanki saw it as the holiest of relics. Akachi saw it as a reward from his god to sow fear and terror amongst infidels. Jerro saw it as a powerful artifact necessary to achieve certain ends.

Faithless saw it as her nemesis.

Myrkul tried to take credit for it, but she knew the god was boasting when he claimed to have planned everything until that point where she met him on the Astral Plane. Including her life. It seemed even dead gods were not immune from such hubris, she mused. She knew better. Her entire life was shaped by the sword itself. The manipulation was so subtle and insidious she had never noticed it until it was too late. Even if she had noticed it earlier, she doubted she ever had any real choice. The planes themselves seemed to answer its cold, siren call.

First it had taken her mother when she could barely walk. From there on, she was bound to the Blade Road of her dreams and nightmares. The more she tried to resist, the more the sword pushed her back onto the path it desired. And along the way, it took more and more until she had nothing left to take, yet it still demanded more. The sword still wanted blood.

Faithless caressed the blade as she picked it up, tilting the end to her chest. She rested the very tip on the ragged scar that dissected her breasts, and felt a tingle run up her spine. Her face slackened, and an empty smile formed on her lips. "You want blood?" she cooed bitterly as she she shifted slightly to align the blade for a straight strike through her heart and lungs. "You got it.." She chuckled at the irony. _I'm gonna put you right back where I found you. _

Suddenly the Shattered Host cried out in surprise as they realized what she was about to do. _No! Stop her! She's trying to end the whole game! If she ceases, so do we! _Frantic Voices screeched and wailed in terror. Faithless felt a dull satisfaction at the panic. _ I will beat you. I will beat all of you. And when Kelemvor plasters me in his lovely wall, it is you lot that will be the first to be devoured. I will win. _With that pleasant thought lingering in her head, she tightened her grip on the hilt and drove the sword towards her chest, expecting to feel cold, painful liberation as she eviscerated herself.

She jerked as a dull ache radiated from her sternum, and she glanced down. The sword tip rested between her breasts, but it had not penetrated the skin. Not even a scratch. Frowning, she readjusted the angle and slammed the point into her chest again. She gasped. It felt more like she had been struck with a blunt instrument than pierced, and when she looked down, she was dismayed to see the sword hadn't so much as pricked her. She held it up and examined it to see if somehow, the great Sword of Gith had finally been dulled. The edge glittered as deadly as ever in the soft candlelight, and for a moment, she wondered if she was dreaming. _It has to be a dream. _

_Does it? _A quiet voice asked coolly. Faithless paused, trying to identify which one of the Shattered Host had spoken, and realized with a start, that she could not identify it. The Host grew silent, as if shirking away from the newcomer.

_Don't look to them for answers. As usual, they don't have any. _The voice was deathly calm. Despite its soft timbre, it possessed a sharp, crystalline quality that reverberated down to the marrow in her bones. Though she knew the voice was within her head, she glanced around the room in spite of herself.

The sword lay quiescently in her hands, and she felt a burning rage consume her. "So, is that it?" she hissed madly. "You never once paused as you took everything from me, but now you have qualms about taking my life?" One hand grabbed the dull edge of the blade, and she tried with all her might to bend and break the sword, but it didn't give. "_Damn You!" she screeched_ maniacally as she flung the sword across the room. It slammed against the stone floor with an ear splitting clang that made her wince before it skittered into a corner and lay still, unmarred.

_Is that really necessary? _The crystalline voice asked, slightly annoyed. _You could try until your flesh decays and bones turn to dust, and you wouldn't so much as scratch the blade's perfection. _

Faithless gritted her teeth. _Who in the Hells are you? _She demanded of the interloper. _Are you the sword? _

Light tinkling laughter responded. _Me? The sword? Oh, heavens no. The sword has no voice. It never did. It didn't need one. The sword has resolve. You of all people should be aware of that. _

_Too well. But you still haven't answered my question. Who are you? _Faithless asked.

_You don't recognize me? I'm hurt. I've been around all your life, from the moment you emerged from your mother until now. And yet you treat me as an intruder? Tsk, Tsk. _

Focusing on the voice, she tried to make it out. Her eyes widened as she realized the voice was hers, yet it sounded as if she was hearing it for the very first time. The strange crystalline quality it possessed made something that should have been familiar something that was totally alien.

_Good. You at least think you recognize me. Everything else is of no consequence. _The Voice grew louder. _Well, most everything else, at least. You tried to end your life, but the blade would not allow it. Why do you think that is? _

Faithless shook her head absently, too terrified to respond to this intruder that spoke with her own voice.

_I'll tell you why. It's because I still exist within you, and the sword knows it. It can sense these things. What am I? I am all thats left of you when the machinations of gods, petty plots of mortals, and the capricious hand of fate have raped you and laid you bare. Yet I also drove you there as well. But that doesn't really matter, does it, when I am the only thing left that can grant you the one desire left in your heart. Revenge. _

Her eyes narrowed. _Revenge? I doubt it. Unfortunately, all my enemies lay dead or beyond my reach. I rejected the only chance I had at vengeance when I restored Akachi and ended the curse. _

_Did you? You have a very narrow view of what counts as an enemy. Are the only people worthy of your blade those who have directly threatened, manipulated, or used you? _The voice lowered, and became colder and more pointed. _What about those who have harmed or ruined those you loved? _

_What about them? _Faithless shot back. _Their enemies lay as dead as most of them do. I made sure of it. Thats the only thing I could really give them in the end. An extra sword arm to help slay their demons and give them resolution. _

_Oh? I think you should reconsider that very carefully. Because you don't need to look too deeply to see that not all of them passed on with a light heart and a clean conscience. _

She sat back and stared dully at the floor. Had she missed something? They had all followed her willingly to the end, eager to put an end to the Shadow King once and for all. Did any of them bury a silent regret, an unfulfilled dream, or an unanswered vendetta that had not already been dealt with? No, even the paladin had made peace with himself and shared that last burden in his heart with her. And then it suddenly dawned on her with ice cold clarity.

Not everyone had followed her to the end. No, in fact, the one she cared for the most had done just the opposite, hadn't he? Her mind drifted back to the sanctum, and she could still see him standing off to Garius' left. His voice cracked as he recounted the twisted path that had led him to that moment. The forced initiation into the Luskan assassination squad. The torching of his village and his desperate attempts to drive everyone out and lure his handlers in. The slaughter of Luskans and villagers alike. His looking forward to finally dying and being done with the mess that was his life.

The memory shifted to an earlier one. A fiery sunset was sinking into the Sea of Swords as they sat on a dock in Neverwinter, passing a bottle of Moonshae whiskey between themselves. He was telling her why he hated Luskans, from the time spent in their army to life within the city itself. Copper eyes blazed violently as he abruptly told her to shut up about Luskans and drink the godsdamned bottle.

She was back in Port Llast, sitting in front of the fire with Malin, the half-elf who had once been his bedmate. _He hates Luskans. Its the only genuine emotion I've ever seen in him. The things he used to do to them when he catch one of their patrols... _Malin shuddered from a memory.

Luskans. They had been the bane of his existence. They had taken him from his village as a young teenager and put him through a mill that ground the soul and killed any spirit he might have ever possessed. He could never mention them without looking as if he was ready to foam at the mouth. The things she could get him to share made her guts churn.

_Gods, he hated them, _she thought as she closed her eyes, focusing on the image in her mind. _I knew he hated them, but I never realized the extent that had damaged him. _

_They did more than damage him, _the voice replied. _They sent him on the path to his destruction. From the fires of Red Fallows Watch to waiting at the Flagon on retainer for Duncan, to your little traveling freak circus, to his nasty betrayal and untimely end under a heap of magical rubble in the Mere. All roads lead to Luskan. _

Faithless turned her head and stared at the Sword of Gith, which was still laying in the corner. _Revenge. _The thought rolled sensuously through her mind like driftwood on a lazy sea. She whispered the word, and it felt like silken chocolate on her tongue. _I set him free, but he stumbled into his own damnation. I tried to free him again, and he resisted. Vengeance is really the only thing _

_left I can get. For him. For me. _

_You see? _The crystalline voice purred triumphantly. _You can't die yet. I will not allow it, and neither will the sword. You're not done yet, girl. His enemies might have outlived him, but they should not be allowed to outlive you. _

_Too right, _Faithless thought as she crawled across the floor and picked up the blade. She held it before her eyes and nodded slowly. "Yes," she said, almost as an afterthought. "For the first time in my life, you are going to do something for me. A lot of somethings, in fact." She scrambled up over to her packs and began to dress.

She would leave that night, as soon as she finished packing her things. The mare should be rested by now. It wasn't that far to Yartar, and Triboar was half a day's ride from there. If need be, she could trade the mare in for another horse there. That didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was she planned on wasting no more time letting the Shattered Host and ghosts of the past drive her to insanity. She was already there. They could push her no further.

And Luskan would end up paying dearly.

The thought gave her a shadow of pleasure, which was more than she had experienced in months. As she stuffed things randomly in her packs, she smiled inwardly. She had discovered her new voice, and it had birthed a new crusade within; this time, a crusade of her own making. And she with that, she discovered the very nature of the new voice that goaded her along this new path.

It was The Voice of Terrible Purpose.


	5. And Justice for All

_Note and Disclaimer: Obsidian Owns Casavir, Bishop, Sand, and all the other OC Characters in this chapter, and while they are welcome to keep Nevalle, nasher, and Kana, they don't deserve Cas or Bishop after what they did to both boys at the end of the OC and in MOTB. Grrrrrrrrr_

"_He who doesn't fear death dies only once." ~Giovanni Falcone _

_He drifted through the chromatic mists and silvery swirls like a ship on calm waters. He was absolutely weightless, or at least he believed himself to be, and felt as insubstantial as the bright vapors he passed through without resistance. It was strange indeed, as what seemed like both a moment and an eternity ago, he felt a sudden, blinding pain shoot through his body like lightning. Now he was here, and felt nothing. Not even curiosity. _

_I am dead, he told himself, looking around with detached surprise. As he passed gyrating portals and looming, alien shapes in the distance, he realized he was in the Astral Plane. He found neither pleasure nor distress at the prospect. Husks of fallen deities and powers sailed in a sea without horizons, but he paid them no mind. The only thing that interested him was the pulsing silver light in the distance that pulled him like a iron to lodestone. _

_He knew what it was. The door to the Fugue Plane. The first destination of all souls before they went to their final ones. Where the gods came to collect their children and whisk them off to their divine kingdoms. It was where, at that moment in a place where time and place did not exist, he felt every fiber of his being drawn there. What happened beyond the silvery portal was of no concern; only that he pass through to what lay beyond. _

_The argent light waxed and waned, and he knew it would not be long before he drifted into the last barrier of eternity, when suddenly the whisper of an Astral wind brushed him. In it, he heard the echo of his name being called. _Her _voice, calling out for him. He halted abruptly, and turned as if to locate the direction of the sound, despite being in a plane where direction, time, nor space held any meaning. Another wind blew past, this one a little more forceful. Again, he heard her call out. _

_She sounded more desperate._

_He turned his attention back to the silver light that had earlier been his entire purpose, and felt the urge to pass through it be replaced by the dawning awareness that he couldn't. Not now. He would not allow it. She had called out to him across the astral sea. Alone. Terrified. And suffering. He did not know what to do at that moment, only that he must refuse that final step into the Fugue Plain. Floating before the portal, no longer feeling its pull, he waited. _

_A dazzling burst of golden radiance flashed in front of the portal, coalescing into a humanoid form. A pair of pearlescent wings unfurled from behind it, and eyes that blazed with pure holy fire fixed themselves upon him. Never had he found himself in the presence of such beauty and benevolence, and without it speaking a word, he knew what it was. He had seen images of them in the temple library plenty of times, and as a child, listened in awe as the priests told him about such beings that populated the slopes of Mount Celestia. _

_A solar. Amongst the most powerful of celestial creatures. _

_The solar was blocking the portal, and its head shook as it waved him away. "No. It is not time. You are not called here yet, Son of Tyr," the celestial spoke in a voice that carried the glory, peace, and beauty of Celestia in it. "Your song is not yet sung." It looked beyond him, and as he followed its gaze, he felt himself begin to grow solid. He understood, and drifted away from solar and portal. He was becoming heavier, and as the Astral Plane faded from his awareness, he heard her voice __once more, carried across the winds into his soul. _

"_Casavir..." Confusion. Fear. Seeking. _

_Celestia could wait. _

_************************** _

_**Crossroad Keep**_

_**19th of Uktar, 1383 (Seven days After the defeat of the King of Shadows)**_

"Casavir?" A high pitched voice. Female. Concerned.

"Eh? Leave him be, fiendling! Let the lad rest!" A deeper, rumbling voice, chastising the first. Definitely male.

"Rest? He's waking up! I just saw him move!" The female voice. Insistent.

"Bah! You only _think _you saw him move! Have you been digging around in the Captain's 'special' pipeweed stash or something?" The male voice, mocking.

"Whatever, stumpy." The female voice, annoyed. "I'm telling you, the paladin moved!"

Casavir's eyes slid open, and he turned his head in the direction of the two speakers. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the light and focus, but as their forms became less blurred, he recognized them. The male speaker, a dwarf that was built like a granite block, snorted at the female speaker, a whip slender tiefling who merely rolled her eyes in response. Khelgar and Neeshka. He watched the two argue for a while in dazed silence, wondering what they were squabbling over this time.

Dwarf and tiefling were now oblivious to his presence, caught up in their usual duel of barbs and insults, so the paladin closed his eyes and turned his attention to the dull aching in his back. He tried to lift himself slightly to feel if he was laying on something hard, but found his movement arrested by something stiff and restraining. He raised his head to look down, but the movement brought a gasp as sharp pain flashed down the length of his spine. His head collapsed back, and he grimaced.

His gasp did not go unheard. Khelgar and Neeshka both stopped mid argument and turned their attention towards him. The dwarf blinked in surprise, and the tiefling's scarlet eyes widened in delight. "See? I told you, mossbreath!" she exclaimed. "I did see him move! Maybe it's _you _who needs the freakin' glasses!"

"Well I'll be damned," Khelgar muttered, studying the paladin. "Looks like for once, devil girl was right!"

"Like, when am I ever wrong?" Neeshka retorted. She turned to Casavir. "Welcome back, big guy! You gave us one hell of a scare!" She pulled a chair over and sat down, and Khelgar did likewise.

"Damned right you did!" Khelgar agreed, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed profound relief.

Casavir looked at them in confusion."I gave you a scare?" he asked after a moment. "Then I must apologize if I have, even though I do not know how I managed this." Though he felt somewhat dizzy and his head was clouded, he managed the ghost of a smile.

"I'll tell you how," Khelgar rumbled, leaning forward. "By dying and then being too stubborn to come back when we were callin' you back! We thought you were gone off to Tyr's Hall for good!" The dwarf smiled conspiratorially. "Though if what I've been hearin' of the mead they serve up there in Celestia, I can't really say I'd blame ya, lad."

"Oh, forget the mead," Neeshka snorted. "I could care less if the all the drinks were on the house! I'm just so glad you're alive! I was afraid when I used up that last charge in the rod of resurrection that it didn't work...you didn't stir or breathe for an hour...I don't even want to think about it." She looked away.

Casavir frowned. Dead? He tried to think back, to remember, but his mind was a haze, and his memories were vague shapes dancing in a grey mist. It was odd. He had been pried from death's clutches before, but it had never been quite like this. Turning his attention back to the tiefling, he said, "I feel...strange."

"Well, that doesn't surprise me," Neeshka said. "With the amount of painkilling salves, ointments, and powerful healing spells they have been piling on you, I'm surprised you feel anything at all." She saw his brow furrow in confusion. "Oh. Damn. You don't remember, do you?"

He shook his head slightly. "No. I do not...even know where I am right now."

"Well, I'll answer that one for you," Khelgar replied. "You're in the infirmary at Crossroad Keep, recovering from the mother of all back injuries. And by Tyr, it's a miracle you are here at all. You did a number on yourself back in those blasted Illefarn ruins, tryin' to hold up that collapsing bit of pillar to free up the escape passage for everyone else." The dwarf looked at the paladin solemnly, his expression rich with respect. "We wouldn't have made it out of there if you hadn't done it, you know. That noble act has earned you a place in the tales the Ironfist skjalds will be tellin' at every Shieldmeet Banquet of Heroes!"

Casavir's recollection had been vague, but he was beginning to remember now. The destruction of the King of Shadows had sent shock waves of energy through the ancient sanctum, weakening what little integrity the structure had left and initiating its collapse. Huge chunks of old stone began raining down on them, and they started running, looking for an escape before they were buried by the dead Guardian's final wrath. He remembered seeing the hint of grey sky through a collapsed passage, half of a large pillar the only thing between his companions and safety. He paused for a fraction of a second as he heard the shouts of alarm coming from behind him in the corridor. It required no further thought; he knew what needed to be done.

_Lord Tyr, ever just and merciful, _he prayed, more fervently then he ever had in his life_, I ask you for one final boon: fill me with your divine strength and glory, so that I may remove this obstacle to their safety. Let me be the instrument of your grace and mercy. If it is my life that is required, I offer it gladly. For my friends. For my Knight Captain. _

A flood of divine power surged through every fiber of his being as he felt his god's hand upon his shoulder, filling him with the strength of a score of cloud giants and the serenity of the heavens. It was as if Tyr himself stood next to him, ready to lift the obstacle with his devoted son. Casavir's resolve had never been as solid and unshakable as it had at that point, and with a hymn of praise on his lips, he braced himself against the pillar and began lifting it with his newly god-given might.

The stone groaned as it shifted from the force of Tyr's divine might. He raised it high enough that everyone could run underneath, though Jerro and Zhjaeve would probably have to duck. A chill, damp gust of wind from the Mere caressed his cheek like the kiss of death, but it only hardened his resolve further. They were only a few steps from freedom.

Neeshka was the first through, carrying a bloodied, limp Grobnar in her arms. She stopped for a moment, wide eyed at the sight of the paladin propping up a piece of stone that easily weighed a few tons, but nodded and dashed through the opening he had provided, cradling the gnome like a desperate mother clinging to a child while fleeing a besieged city. Zjhaeve came next, accompanied by what at first he thought was a stone golem carrying another limp form. The githzerai cleric nodded towards the opening and ducked underneath, motioning to the golem. Casavir realized the limp form the golem carried to be Elanee, and as the creature began to shift form into something smaller and more graceful, he knew that it was Sand, transformed temporarily into a hulking brute. The elven mage dragged the druidess through the opening, where Zhjaeve grabbed her legs, and the two of them carried her out of the passage to safety. Sand turned briefly to look at the paladin, and gave him a solemn nod of respect and thanks before disappearing into daylight above.

A few minutes passed. No one else came running. Casavir felt his godly strength start to ebb, and he shouted back down the corridor, his voice bolstered by both the strength of his Lord and growing urgency. No response. Three of his comrades were still in there, and last he saw them, they were alive and well, looking desperately for a route of escape with him. They should have heard him calling out to them. He tried again. Only the echoes of collapsing stone and crumbling foundation replied. A growing sense of dread tightened in his bosom. _Great Tyr, please let them still hear me, _he prayed. _Show them safety is but a few paces away. _

A minute later Khelgar bounded down the corridor with a speed that seemed at odds with his squat, bulky, and heavily armored frame. But instead of making a mad dash out of the ruins, he stopped short and looked wild-eyed at the paladin, his arms waving urgently back in the direction he came from. He was shouting something frantically, but Casavir could not hear him. His strength was fleeing fast, and he could feel the weight of the pillar bearing down upon him more and more. He shouted at Khelgar to leave, jerking his head towards the exit, but the dwarf was shouting back at him, telling him to leave the damned rock, yelling about something far worse back in the sanctum. Casavir shook his head. If he let go of the pillar, it would crush them both. He knew his own fate was sealed; that did not bother him. His friends were far more important. Khlegar ran his hand over his bald scalp in frustration. "_For the love of Tyr, Khelgar, get the hells out of here before you are buried alive!" _Casavir shouted with every bit of force he could muster.

Khelgar balled his fists and bellowed,"_The Captain is in serious trouble, Casavir, and she's needin' your help!" _

Those words were the last thing he remembered from that day. The next thing he knew, white pain consumed him, and then...a vagueness in his memory of something else, but he could not recall it. Only a twilight veil that hid something from him.

He looked at Khelgar, who was watching him with polite interest. "I'm grateful to see you made it out, Khelgar," Casavir said. "From what I last remember, I feared you wouldn't."

"Bah!" the dwarf snorted. "You think think a couple o' tons of moldy old elf rocks would keep an Ironfist King down? I've dug my way out of piles of broken barstools that were more challenging!"

Casavir smiled weakly and looked at Neeshka. "I remember you were the first to escape, and you carried Grobnar with you. Sand and Zhjaeve came shortly after with Elanee. Did they survive as well?"

"Yep! Tree hugging druid, wise-ass wizard, kooky gnome, and spacey gith, all present and accounted for, sir!" The tiefling replied replied with a wry smile and mock salute. She glanced around. "Elanee is two beds over from you, and Grobnar is at the other end of the room. Thank the gods. Call me crazy, but I swear he snores that whitethistle song in his sleep. Sand is in the library with Aldanon, and the gith is probably somewhere trying to 'know' something new."

He felt some measure of relief wash over him, and murmured a prayer of thanksgiving to Tyr. His comrades had survived, and on top of it, Tyr had allowed him to return to life. Still, the relief he felt was eclipsed by a blooming shadow of unease. There were two names conspicuously absent from Neeshka's report. One was Ammon Jerro, the twisted warlock who had been willing to pay any price, no matter how depraved, to destroy the King of Shadows, and in the end, no matter how one looked at it, he had. Though he was not fond of Jerro, who had made numerous infernal pacts and deals in his single minded-quest to destroy his nemesis, even killing his own granddaughter without thought, he still did not revel in the thought of the man meeting his fate and being dragged off to the Hells to pay those debts.

The other name missing, however, worried him more. He felt a twinge of guilt, because deep down, that missing name was the most important one of all to him. Thinking back to his last memories in the sanctum, he remembered Khelgar's words. _The Captain is in serious trouble, Casavir, and she needs your help. _He closed his eyes tightly. He had not seen her coming, nor had he heard her call out. Khelgar was frantic. She had been alive, but in some sort of danger. And as he remembered standing there, using every bit of his strength to keep the escape route open, he realized that he could do nothing to help her. That was when everything went blank.

_Have I failed her when she needed me most? _Casavir wondered as his heart started to sink into a chasm of despair. _Sweet Tyr, please, don't let it be so. _He turned to Neeshka and Khelgar, his face betraying the turmoil within, but when he tried to speak, he found that he couldn't.

Neeshka mistook the look on his face as one of physical pain, and called for a cleric. She placed her hand comfortingly on Casavir's shoulder. "It's gonna be ok, Cas," she said softly, patting him gently in an effort to soothe him. "The priest is coming, and he will bring some better painkillers with him. They said the reason it's taking so long to heal you up is something to do with the taint of the shadows and some stuff about the negative energy plane. From what they were saying, there were a lot more bad vibes in that place than we realized, and even being there was enough for some of that nastiness to cling to us. It's not permanent, and they can get rid of it, but it does seem to affect the strength of divine magics, so they have to work a lot harder at both healing and getting rid of the spiritual crap blocking them." She looked up as a young man, clad in the blue and golden robes of Tyr, arrived at the other side of the bed, his hands carrying a tray filled with bottles and jars. Neeshka looked back at the paladin, her lips forming a tight smile. "They say it's also why that damned resurrection rod took so long to work."

The priest knelt beside the bed and smiled at the paladin. "Tyr be praised," the man said warmly. "I shall thank Him tonight in my prayers, that he has allowed you to return to us, Brother Casavir. Would you allow me the honor of invoking his grace to tend to your wounds?"

Casavir nodded to the young man. "Of course," he replied. "Brother...?"

"Heskin. Brother Heskin." he said, seeming pleased to be asked. "And I must confess, it is an great honor to heal your injuries and bring you relief from your pain. You are an example to us all: a true hero of the church." The young priest laid his hands on the paladin's shoulders and began to pray. Casavir relaxed and felt the warmth and purity of Tyr's energy course through him, though he felt slightly uncomfortable with the cleric's glowing praise for him. He had never handled praise well, preferring instead the quiet satisfaction that came through knowing he had served Tyr well, and by serving Tyr, served others in need. That in itself had always been reward enough for him.

Heskin finished his healing spells and began administering the potions from his tray. He explained in more detail what Neeshka had told him about the shadowy taint and its interference with healing. The priest also explained the nature of Casavir's injuries: his spine had snapped and the pillar had crushed several bones in his body. The stiff object Casavir had felt earlier was a brace to keep him immobilized while the healing knitted his body back together again. Another tenday, Heskin mused, and they would most likely remove it, and the paladin would be free to move about more. A tenday after that, Tyr willing, and he would be fully healed.

After finishing his ministrations, the young cleric gathered the tray and left. Casavir felt the effects of the pain relief potions disconnecting his brain from his body, and knew that before long, his mind would be shrouded in a thick, narcotic haze. He would be too muddled to carry on much of a conversation; too muddled ask the question that gnawed at him mercilessly at that moment. More than anything, he needed to know before he faded to numbness.

"Khelgar." He turned his head and focused on the dwarf, a feat that was becoming more difficult by the minute. "You were the last one I saw before my back gave. Yet I did not see Ammon Jerro or the Knight Captain before you." His mouth was beginning to feel dry and his lids grew heavy, but he pressed on. "Did they make it out as well?"

Khelgar looked away uncomfortably, as if trying to find the proper words, and even through the growing numbness of the painkillers, Casavir felt his heart sink and his stomach knot. _Tyr's mercy, no! _Shock and horror rose from deep in his chest, and he fought the expanding tendrils of oblivion that threatened to drown all awareness.

"Then...she is..." He could not say the word: Dead. "Gone?"

Khelgar's eyes snapped back up and his gaze grew firm. "Dead? No, lad, she was alive when I saw her last, which was after the stone caved in on you. The warlock, too."

It did little to quell the chill he felt. "What do you mean? Is she still trapped in there? Or did she escape?" His voice was quivering.

For a few minutes, Khelgar stared off towards the far side of the room, his expression both worried and resigned. The dwarf's silence weighed heavier on Casavir than the stone of Illefarn had. Eventually, Khelgar sighed and leaned forward on his chair, folding his hands as he searched for the right words.

"Well, to be perfectly honest with you, lad, neither," Khelgar said. "The truth is, both the Captain's and the warlock's whereabouts are a mystery to us right now. One that the mages and priests and sages are workin' on figuring out. I was hopin' that you'd be healed up more before I had to tell you what happened in the sanctum, but since you're askin' now, you got a right to know."

Neeshka looked over at the dwarf sympathetically and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Go on, Khelgar," she encouraged. "Best to tell him now, while those wonderful painkillers are kicking in."

Khelgar nodded. "True enough." He took a deep breath, and began to recount what had happened after the pillar collapsed. Casavir listened even as his awareness dimmed within the analgesic fog expanding in his mind, and shortly after Khelgar finished his telling, Casavir was almost totally oblivious to his environment. Yet even as his consciousness escaped into the world of sleep, a nagging specter of worry followed him beyond the veil into his dreams.

What Khelgar had told him filled him with a dread that even the most potent narcotics could not drown.

********************************

The pale Midwinter sun began its early afternoon descent towards the southwest of the keep, and Casavir paused from his exercise to watch it for a few moments. His breath escaped from his lips in frosted clouds as it met the frigid air. This winter was the harshest in generations. Even in the middle of the day, ice crystals sparkled like fairy dust in the waning light. He could not remember when it had ever been this cold on the Sword Coast, and he knew it had something to do with the residual life draining energies that still lingered in the Mere.

After a quiet nod of thanksgiving to the reborn sun, Casavir returned to his practice. He had finally been able to leave the infirmary two tendays ago, a little earlier than expected, and he wasted no time in returning to light weapons practice and sparring to restore his fitness. He had to start slowly, going through the very basics he had learned as a novice, to allow his body to grow comfortable with a weapon again. Before and after every practice session, he prayed to Tyr, thanking him not only for his life, but his speedy recovery.

Today he was cutting his practice a bit shorter so that he could attend the Midwinter celebrations. This year, it held extra importance: the Shadow War had ended little over a month ago, and the unnatural freeze was a bleak reminder of how close the entire Sword Coast North had been to becoming a lifeless wasteland. Midwinter held the promise of the return of the sun, and with it, the return of its life giving warmth. The peasants had suffered the most from the war. The harvest itself that year had already been late and scant, and what little there was had been fouled and laid waste to by the legions of undead that had tried to take the keep. There had also been many casualties, and over the past few tendays, the atmosphere of the keep had been one perpetual funeral. The yuletide festivities would be blessed respite from the harsh reality of rationing and war recovery. Though he himself was in no mood to celebrate, he still planned on attending. If nothing else, it would boost morale, and that in itself would be reason enough for him.

He finished up with the practice dummy. Today he had opted for light training alone, so that he would not risk injury or fatigue from sparring with some of the senior Greycloaks. Many were busy with preparations anyway, and he was happy to leave them to it. The clerics of the temple had temporarily relieved him of duty until the month of Hammer so that he could fully recover and get back in shape. Though he understood their concern, and accepted their judgment, he was not happy about it. There was much work to be done, and though he might not have been at top form at the time, there was still much he could do. He wondered secretly if Nevalle had anything to do with it. As much as he hated to think about it, it was exactly the sort of thing the Captain of the Nine would do.

Shaking the thought from his head, he tucked his hammer back into its belt clip and slung his shield over his back. Right now was not the time for petty grievances that should have long ago been laid to rest. There was a keep to rebuild, injured people to heal, and logistics to deal with. And, just as important, if not slightly more so to him, there was a missing Knight Captain to be found.

As he turned and walked back to the keep, he thought about what Khelgar had told him. After the Captain had ordered Casavir, Neeshka, and Zhjaeve ahead to see if they could find the entrance, another shudder had erupted through the sanctum, causing part of the floor to collapse into a dungeon. The Captain had dodged away from the pit, narrowly missing it, only to evade in the way of a falling chunk of plaster that knocked her down. Jerro saw that she was still breathing, and started chanting an invocation when suddenly, a black, smoky portal began to open, disgorging three creatures that looked like gargoyles made of flesh and shadow. Though they looked warily around at the collapsing structure, they were far more interested in the prone form on the floor, silvery-blue blade still clutched in her hand.

Believing them to be minions of the King of Shadows, Ammon lifted his arms and invoked a wall of eldritch flame between the creatures and himself. They looked at one another and tried circling around the flaming wall. Khelgar charged and hit one squarely with his axe. The blow did little damage, and the creature, more annoyed than anything, flicked its wings and sent the dwarf sprawling across the floor, and then continued advancing on the warlock and the injured Captain. Jerro shouted for Khelgar to go get the paladin and the gith. When Khelgar returned after Casavir had been crushed, he saw that Jerro's flames had been dispelled, and one of the creature's was carrying the Captain's limp form and the Sword of Gith in its arms. The other two were busy trying to distract the angry warlock. Khelgar went after the one with his Captain, and with unnatural speed, it bounded for the portal, shouting for the other two. They followed, and Khelgar tried to keep up, but to no avail. The gargoyles had been magically hasted, and before the dwarf had time to shout in alarm, the portal had swallowed them, Captain and all. Jerro, who looked as if he had been hasted himself, charged through the portal seconds after, and by the time Khelgar had reached it, the shadow door had vanished.

It went beyond strange. According to Khelgar, he had gotten the impression that the creatures wanted her alive. Though they attacked Jerro, they seemed as if they were trying to shield her from harm. It was apparent that she, and only she, was their objective. Had Jerro and Khelgar stood by and done nothing, the dwarf was certain that the gargoyles would have paid them no mind. Even the description of the creatures was bizarre. Human-like shadowy gargoyles who had a repertoire of spells beyond that of most mages? Both Sand and Aldanon had never heard of such a thing, and for a while, were convinced that Khelgar had taken a rock to his own head. It was only after they began divinations that they started taking the dwarf more seriously.

Over the past month, the temple, as well as the keep mages, had been performing divinations and search spells to find out what happened to their Captain. The revelations had been disturbing. Or rather, the lack there of. Expecting answers, they were met with silence. Had she been dead, the summoned planar beings would have said as much. Spirits summoned by both mages and clerics yielded the same results. It was as if she did not exist, and had never existed.

The ruins of the sanctum had been combed over. There was no sign of her anywhere, though they had uncovered the bodies of Garius, his reavers, and Qara. They searched the surrounding Mere, but other than one very faint set of tracks too large to be hers, she was nowhere to be found. Daeghun himself led the search, and when the ruins proved fruitless, he had wandered off into the dead swamps, refusing to give up.

Casavir walked through the keep doors, giving the guards a polite nod as he made his way to his quarters. He glanced over in the direction of the library, and for a moment, wondered if he should go and check to see if Aldanon and Sand had any breakthroughs. He supposed they were getting weary of his daily queries, frustrated as they probably were with their own lack of answers. He had checked with the temple earlier, but most of the senior clergy were busy making Midwinter preparations, so he let them be. Deciding that the sage and wizard were probably doing their own midwinter preparations, he continued on to his room, where he was surprised to find a washtub filled with warm water waiting for him. He guessed Neeshka probably had probably gotten one of the servants to draw it while he was out practicing. She had been quite concerned about him lately, and often took care of small things for him without being asked. Her concern had been touching. And even though she tried to be upbeat about the situation, he knew she was extremely upset over the disappearance of the Captain. They all were.

Stripping out of his armor and clothing, Casavir stepped into the tub and began washing himself. _I must thank Neeshka for having this bath drawn for me, _he thought. _It was very considerate of her. _

But as he lathered and scrubbed the sweat from his practice, his mind was filled with thoughts and memories of another tiefling, whose mysterious fate kept him awake many nights. He stopped washing for a moment, and bowing his wet and soapy head, began a prayer to Tyr that she would return home safely.

********************************

The aroma of evergreens, spiced foods, and strong mead filled the main floor of the keep as Casavir made his way to the dinning hall. A lusty ballad twanged from lute as an accompanying drum and the clink of pewter tankards kept time. Taking one last look at his Midwinter finery to ensure it was presentable, he walked through the arched doorway and into the feast.

The tables had been arranged in a horseshoe shape, with a large cluster of tables in the middle that were adorned with ivy, holly, yew, and spruce branches. On them was the night's feast: a large roast boar, a couple of chickens, spicy stewed apples, roasted parsnips with herbs, fresh dark bread, toasted chestnuts, and a plum pudding soaked in brandy. He noticed that there was a fraction of the fare that was enjoyed last year, and as he looked around at the people gathered, he knew he was not the only one who noticed. The season had been bad indeed for field and forest.

Still, the people did not let it ruin their spirits, and he watched peasant and Greycloak drink and dance with merry abandon. Children with chaplets of holly joined in the spirit and danced in rings to whatever tune the minstrels were strumming, and a small group of them broke away from the rest and almost ran into him as they made their way towards the door. One little girl with dark hair and a chubby face looked up at him wide eyed, but he smiled back and patted her on the head, encouraging her to go join her friends. Giggling, she ran past him and out the door, catching up with her playmates. He watched them disappear around the corner, and found himself marveling at the spiritual resilience and innocent hopes that came naturally to the young.

As he turned back to the feast at hand, he felt an arm circled his waist, and before he could fully turn, Neeshka had whirled around to face him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. He stepped back and regarded the tiefling with surprise, and as the smile that was in her eyes reached her lips, he felt his face flush profusely. Touching the spot where she had kissed him, he gave her a puzzled look, to which her smile grew wider as she looked above his head and pointed. He followed her gaze upward, and saw at once what spurred her unusual gesture. He had been standing under the mistletoe. His face grew even redder, and Neeshka burst into laughter.

"You should really watch where you are standing around this time of year," she told him. "You were standing there for a few minutes, and, well....." She shrugged and gave him her best "the devil made me do it" smile.

Chuckling, he stepped away a few paces before someone else happened to notice his position. "I was not being very vigilant, true. Thank you for bringing it to my attention." He gave Neeshka his best "you are forgiven" look, and they both walked over to the banquet tables to grab plates of food and tankards of mead before taking their seats.

As Casavir sat down to eat, he looked around at the faces gathered. Though mostly humans and half elves, there were other races present. Most notably were the few Ironfist dwarves and lizardmen who had decided to stay and help with recovery. Khelgar was talking to a few of his clansmen on the far side of the room, occasionally lifting and shaking his tankard for emphasis on something. A small group of lizardmen stood off to the side of the banquet tables, sniffing at the food and chattering excitedly to one another in their sibilant tongue. He recognized one of them as Slaan. A table away, he noticed Zhjaeve studying the festivities with curious amusement. Her plate of food remained untouched. As he dug his fork into his own plate, he wondered what the githzerai thought about the feast. They did not have seasons in Limbo, and from what little she spoke of her home plane, they had very few celebrations of any sort.

He quietly ate his meal. Neeshka was sitting on the other side of the table, poking at the small sliver of meat on her plate and commenting that it was a little bit overcooked. Grobnar, who was still wearing a leg brace from his injuries, decided that the chef could learn a few things about cooking turnips from his auntie. Elanee looked at her plate in meditative silence, and something in her gaze said that it was not the quality of food that bothered her, but the quantity. Sand sat directly next to Casavir, and other than the occasional comparison to a proper elven Midwinter, he ate his food with surprisingly little complaint.

Finishing his meal, Casavir started to get up to take his plate to the kitchen when his eyes caught sight of something he had not noticed earlier. At the arch of the arrangement of tables sat an empty seat decked with garlands of holly and ivy interlaced with shiny red foil. An empty plate sat in front of it with what he guessed would be an empty tankard. He shuddered a deep sigh. The Captain's place. They had set up her place as if they expected her to arrive sometime that night, horns wrapped in juniper, a half empty bottle of one in one hand and that mischievous grin on her face.

His mind wandered back to last year's celebration, when she had still only been a squire. The memory was so strong that he could see a ghost image of her, sitting in that seat, legs casually kicked up on the table, eyes glazed, a crooked wreath held to her head only by her horns. A flask of winter wine she held in one hand, while the other hand looked like it was trying to conduct the band of minstrels playing. A half drunken smile was plastered to her pleasantly sharp features, and she toasted anyone who walked past, from lieutenants to scullery maids. Shandra, who had drank more than her share of the fine wine, was dancing with Sand, and the Captain cheered them on. She had forked out her own money to throw a lavish feast for the men and peasants who had chosen to make the keep their home. Kana bridled at the expense of it all, but the Captain, in her usual devil-may-care demeanor, shrugged it off and told Kana "Mind your own business. My money, my party." Although she never said so, her friends suspected that the main reason she had thrown such a large, wild, and lavish party was in memory of West Harbor, her home village which had been destroyed a couple months prior.

Casavir felt his eyes water as he stared at that empty chair, her absence suddenly bearing down on him heavily. He glanced around, and noticed that more than a few times, people would look over at the empty seat with a touch of sadness in their eyes. She had been an... unusual person, to say the least. Her casual demeanor and distaste for hierarchies and ranks were odd traits for a commander, even given her humble beginnings. She had been thrust into the nobility, thrust into command against her own desires, and despised it. However, as with many things, she decided rather than brood and mope, she would find a way to meet the challenge on her own terms, and damn Nasher and his people if they didn't like how she ran things! And in the end, despite her demeanor and heritage, her men and her people really cared about her.

He stared at her empty seat for what seemed like an eternity, and Sand, who noticed the paladin's mind was elsewhere, looked over and immediately understood. The elf's features grew dim, and the others followed his gaze over to the vacant chair. For several minutes, they looked on in silence. It was Neeshka who broke the silence first.

"You know, I bet that's the reason this year's feast isn't as much fun," she mused, tipping her tankard in silent toast to the person who had been the closest to a sister she had known. "She really knew how to throw a good party, and didn't skimp with the coin, either." She sipped her mead absently, and her garnet eyes became distant.

Sand looked wryly at Neeshka. "Well, considering what you tieflings consider a 'proper party', I'll concede your point." He chuckled. "I must admit, I rather miss our dear commander's...um... levity, however inappropriate it was at times."

Though his gaze did not waver, Casavir found himself agreeing silently with the elf. Her sense of humor and penchant for pranks and curious forms of revenge were...odd. At times, they made him cringe. But at that moment, he found that he would have given almost anything for the sound of her husky voice growling obscenities through the keep's corridors, or singing one of Grobnar's latest creations as she sparred with the paladin. Her singing voice was less than pleasant, but right now, it would have been honey in his ears.

He felt a hand on his forearm, and looked to see it was Grobnar. "Sir Casavir, don't let despair darken the day for you," the gnome said softly. "Remember, today we celebrate the shortest day of the year, because afterwards, the days only grow longer. Little by little, but they do." He glanced back at the Captain's chair. "You know she would be heartbroken to see any of us with sad faces, especially you. And you know, she will be back. Maybe not here, but by the gods, she will return. I don't just believe she will. I know she will." He lifted his own tankard in salute to the empty chair and took a sip.

Mimicking Grobnar's gesture, he toasted the absent Captain. He wished he could share the gnome's optimism. The lack of reports and information from divination, however, gnawed at him. _Please, merciful Tyr, bring her home. Or at least let us know her fate. Whatever it might be. _

Casavir collected his dishes as well as the empty plates of his companions and brought them to the kitchen. Though uncustomary, he preferred to lighten the load of the kitchen staff a bit. They had expected to see him, however, and after scolding him lightly for doing their work for them, they engaged him in friendly, light hearted chat for a while. Suddenly, the ringing of the dinning hall gong drew his attention, and he excused himself to return to his seat.

Kana was standing in the center of the horseshoe, still holding the gong mallet in her right hand. Her face was like that of a judge: stone sober. While not unusual for the adjutant, Casavir could not help but feel uneasy. Kana, who had little time for celebrations and light hearted revelry, was about to announce something she felt important enough to interrupt the Midwinter's festivities.

"Your attention please," she called out. Greycloaks and peasants alike paused whatever they were doing and turned their full attention to her. The Ironfists regarded her with passive interest, and the lizardmen eyed her curiously. "I have a very important announcement that I was ordered to relay as soon as I received it."

"As I am certain you are all aware, Knight Captain Tandis went missing right after the end of the Shadow War, and Neverwinter has spent considerable resources to locate her." Neeshka snorted, and Sand cynically made a clicking noise. Neverwinter had spared a Cloaktower mage and a couple novice priests of Mystra to divine her whereabouts. Most of the effort had been from the mages, clerics, and scouts of Crossroad Keep.

Kana continued, pretending not to hear the faint chorus of snorts and groans. "However, our efforts have been fruitless, and it is with great sorrow that Lord Nasher wishes to inform the soldiers and citizens of Crossroad Keep that Knight Captain Tandis has been officially declared dead, and the process of appointing a new commander has begun. All search and rescue efforts will cease as of tonight, and all the keep's efforts and resources will be refocused on preparation for a change of command. That is all." She turned briskly on her heel and marched out of the hall, her face still an emotionless mask.

Stunned silence followed. Then people started looking around at each other in disbelief. Whispers and groans filled the hall. The music had fallen silent. Even the lizardfolk spoke to one another excitedly. Eyes looked over at the empty seat and the empty setting. Neeshka cursed. Sand rolled his eyes and shook his head in dismay.

Casavir said nothing, only stared coolly at the spot next to the gong where Kana had stood only minutes before. Some small part of him was not shocked at all by the sudden announcement. He glanced over at Sand, and was certain that the elf, who had lived long enough in Neverwinter to know, shared his unspoken sentiment. The paladin stared off beyond his table, beyond the crowds gathered, beyond the hall and the keep itself.

_So it begins again, _Casavir thought bitterly as he tapped his fingers on the table.

**********************************************

He stood outside the door to the Commander's office in the west wing of the keep. He could hear muffled voices beyond: Nevalle and some emissary from Yartar discussing business. His foot tapped impatiently. The Captain of the Nine had arrived last night to prepare the keep while Nasher looked for a replacement for the missing Captain. It had been a month since Kana had made her Midwinter's announcement, and Casavir felt he had waited long enough for answers.

It seemed hours before the door finally opened, and a well groomed man walked past Casavir without much acknowledgment. Nevalle appeared shortly after, and would have walked right past the paladin had he not cleared his throat. He looked at Casavir in brief surprise, which quickly changed into mild annoyance.

"What is it Casavir?" Nevalle asked impatiently. "I'm rather busy at the moment, if you don't mind."

"I wish to speak with you." The paladin kept his voice neutral with some effort.

"Can this wait? I have important matters to attend to." Dismissive. Irritated.

"No, it cannot wait." Casavir motioned towards the empty office and walked in, seating himself before the cherry wood desk without waiting for Nevalle.

He heard an annoyed grunt behind him, and then the door shutting. Nevalle appeared before him moments later, seating himself behind the desk.

"Make it quick. I'm a busy man."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Casavir replied, keeping his voice level. He silently prayed to Tyr for strength and wisdom. The Captain of the Nine was not a pleasant man to deal with, and Casavir was feeling less than diplomatic at this point. "In this case, I will be upfront with you. I want to know why Lord Nasher has decided to call off the search for the missing Captain and declare her dead with no evidence or proof of her fate."

Nevalle looked at him incredulously. "You are wasting my time on _that_? I thought the reasons are pretty clear, Casavir. Divinations and searches of the ruins have turned up nothing. We have yet another war to recover from, and need all manpower and resources we can muster. And this keep needs a _proper _leader." He did little to hide the contempt in his last sentence.

"It has been barely a month, Nevalle. Surely even the silence from the divinations should warrant some investigation, should it not?"

"Investigate exactly _what_? If the gods choose not to reveal something, is it our right to question?" A trace of condescension.

"And what of the arcanists, then? They do not seek their answers from the gods, but from the mysteries of the Weave and the planes themselves. And they, too, have only been greeted by silence. Is that not cause for concern?"

Nevalle snorted. "It's not the Time of Troubles, if that is what you are suggesting. All other magic works fine, and divinations on other issues have brought result. It is only on this particular issue. While odd, it is certainly not alarming or earth shaking for Neverwinter, especially given the...subject...of our searches." He sat back smugly as if this was a perfectly reasonable answer, and further discussion was pointless.

Casavir clenched his fists and released the tension in them. He reined in the urge to slap the smug arrogance off Nevalle's face, and silently prayed to Tyr again. "I disagree. A clever rogue who danced in shadow she might have been, but even the greatest of them are not invisible to the eyes of the gods and skilled wizards. As for Neverwinter, I would think the disappearance of not only a noble, but a leader who successfully led her people into victory over the greatest threat since the Creator races would be of _grave _concern to a city that is said to cherish its heroes."

Nevalle leaned forward. "Listen, and listen once, _Oathbreaker,_" he said in a low, contemptuous voice. "Do not play games with me. We both know just how 'noble' she was, and the reasons we knighted her. Lord Nasher knew it was a necessary evil, but one that benefited Neverwinter in the long run. Now the war is over, and frankly, I think the rebuilding of the keep, the recovery of Neverwinter, and the restoration of order are far bigger priorities than the fate of some...tiefling with questionable morals and ethics."

"Ahhh, yes. _Necessary evils. _A concept Neverwinter and Lord Nasher have used freely to excuse numerous indiscretions on both their parts. Though 'evil' is not a word I would have ever thought to associate with our captain, but considering the source, I am not at all surprised." Nevalle started to get up as if to dismiss him, but Casavir held his hand up and snapped coolly, "I am not finished, Nevalle, and I find it very rude and unbecoming of someone of your station to storm out like an angry child when legitimate grievances are being aired in a civilized, honest fashion." Nevalle froze, and the look on his face said that he was less than pleased by the paladin's firmness. But he sat down nonetheless, and favored Casavir with a penetrating look that worked well for intimidating unruly subordinates. Casavir, however, was unfazed.

"As for priorities," he continued as if no interruption had occurred, "I am aware of Neverwinter's 'priorities' in the past in regards to its heroes and greatest servants, and that troubles me. Which is why I feel it necessary to address this issue now, as it seems the tragedies and lessons of the past are being forgotten. I am not expecting Lord Nasher to call forth legions of soldiers and spellcasters to engage in this mission. It was quite clear to me the 'priority' Lord Nasher placed on locating our missing lady when he set a handful of novice clerics and wizards to the task. The more serious efforts were done voluntarily by the personnel of Crossroad Keep."

Nevalle's eyes narrowed, and he lowered his voice to a dangerous growl. "Please tell me I did _not _just hear you question the intentions and motivations of Lord Nasher. That is presumptuous coming from a man who fancies himself a paladin yet betrayed his oath to his lord and city."

Casavir closed his eyes and smiled. The peace and resolve that had washed over him earlier became stronger, and he knew Tyr's grace was with him. "Nevalle, you may insult and ridicule me for my past actions," he said calmly, "But it is not I who consider myself a paladin, but Tyr. And his opinion on the matter is more than enough for me, even if it means little to you." His heartbeat steadied, and he felt the pleasant intensity of Tyr's favor and blessing fill every fiber of his being. "But that is not the issue here. The problem is that the dedicated people of Crossroad Keep have been using their free time to try and discover news of her fate, and their work has not interfered in the reconstruction and recovery here. Thus, I am concerned why Lord Nasher has seen fit to end the search when it has barely begun, especially as it is using so few resources, and declare her dead without even the slightest shred of evidence."

"Do you not hear well? I just told you, we have greater priorities. In case you haven't been paying attention, Casavir, this war caused a lot of destruction, even if the city itself was spared. Fort Locke and Highcliff were devastated, as well as many small villages and minor posts in between. Trade has been severely disrupted, and many lives were lost. Like I said, there are far more important things needing our limited time and resources than one absent Knight Captain, who more than likely would not have remained as such after the war, either by her own choice or actions. Besides, Lord Nasher and the council have decided there is another individual associated with this keep whose whereabouts they are far more concerned with, and have increased priority and resources to locate this person."

Casavir frowned. For a moment, he wondered who Nevalle was talking about. All of Crossroad Keep's personnel, whether alive or dead, had been accounted for, save for the Captain and Ammon Jerro. Certainly no one whom Nasher would have considered important enough to devote any significant time or resources locating. The lizardlings had returned to their tribes to seek out new lands and territories to settle in, and the remaining Ironfists had gone home after they stayed long enough to help the engineers restore the walls and repair the damaged gates...

_Damaged gates. _The main gates and the mechanisms that operated them had not been damaged by the raging legions of darkness or the machines of war they employed. They had been destroyed from within the walls, by the hand of a man who, unlike Garius' forces, had been very much alive. And since he fled the shadow sanctum before the final battle with Garius and his shadowy lord, he remained very much unaccounted for.

"Bishop." The name tasted of acid and bile as it rasped from his lips.

"Now we are getting somewhere. And of course, I don't think we need to go into the _why _when discussing Lord Nasher and the Council's interest in him. A traitor of the worst sort, and a murderer of innocents on top of it. Neverwinter, and the Sword Coast in general will be a better place once this man no longer walks free and swings from the gallows. I'm sure that even you can see the wisdom of this."

Casavir leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. _Bishop._ Betrayer. Coward. Murderer. The ranger had been all these things and more. Casavir found it difficult to even think about the man without disgust and anger rising from his belly. Especially when it came to matters concerning the Captain, as Bishop had been his arch rival in the war for her affections. And won. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

Nevalle nodded and continued. "I thought you might see it our way. I've also been told that the two of you were less than bosom buddies. If my sources are correct, which they usually are, the two of you clashed like rutting bulls constantly for the favors of Captain Tandis. And if rumors are to be believed, in the end, it was the ranger who ended up grazing her pastures. Which doesn't surprise me, given the nature of the 'prize cow' in question."

Blood pounded in Casavir's ears, and veins bulged from his temples. His face turned scarlet. "Do _not _speak of her in that way, Nevalle," he growled. "Not to me, nor to anyone. That is the kind of coarse metaphor I would expect from the man you are now hunting, and I did not tolerate it from him. Nor will I tolerate it from you."

Nevalle held up his hands in an attempt to placate the angry paladin "All right, I'm sorry. That was crude of me. I should have chosen better words. Still, I am curious as why a man of your creed and morals would even be interested in a woman like that, given her obvious heritage and her nature."

"Her heritage is of no concern to me, only her actions and outlook," Casavir replied shortly. "Nor should it be to anyone who looks at the world through Tyr's eyes. As for her nature, you knew nothing about her. None of you did, and I would suggest you hold your tongue and speculations regarding her or her private life."

"All right, all right," Nevalle sighed. "It's none of my business. Let's get back to the matter at hand. We have bounties posted on Bishop up and down the Sword Coast, and so far, a number of bounty hunters and sell swords have already taken on the task. We also know that prior to joining up with your party, he haunted Luskan territory extensively. While we can't send hunters up that way, we have shared what we know about him and his crimes with the new Luskan ambassador, and it seems Luskan has taken some interest of his whereabouts as well. In this, Luskan might actually prove useful for a change."

"If you are bringing Luskan into this, then you also know that if they find him, he will be subjected to their idea of 'justice', which is a mockery of the true thing. He will not even have a proper trial where he could be made to answer for his crimes. They would simply execute him publicly for the amusement of the masses."

"I don't need a lecture on the finer points of High and Low Justice," Nevalle said. "I know damned well what the Luskans would do to him should they catch him, and frankly, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy, as far as I'm concerned. The important thing is not who finds him first, only that someone finds him and he gets exactly what he deserves. Whether Neverwinter or Luskan, or even some bloodthirsty mercenary looking for gold and glory, all that matters is that Bishop gets his just rewards."

"Just rewards?" Casavir asked, incredulous of what he was hearing. Was Nevalle even listening to himself? "I am hearing an interest in blind vengeance, not justice."

"Oh, come on, Casavir," Nevalle snorted. "Spare me the semantics. In the end, is there really a difference?"

The paladin sat silently for a long time, watching Nevalle in disbelief. Were these words really coming from the Captain of the Nine, a man who was supposed to be a paragon of duty to Lord and Land, a Lord and Land who claimed to serve Tyr and uphold his tenets and ideals? Tenets and ideals which were the antithesis of the cavalier vigilantism being condoned right now? The answer came to him quicker then the question had. _Of course these words are coming from him. This wouldn't be __the first time Neverwinter has allowed mob rule and emotional reactions to prevail while allowing a grave injustice to go unpunished._

"There is a big difference, Nevalle," Casavir replied after a while. "And I am truly disturbed to hear you say that. Such attitudes are what caused the death of an innocent priest of Tyr, and the subsequent fall of one of his greatest champions, leading to the devastation and suffering of the Luskan War. Or have you already forgotten the bitter lessons of Brother Fenthick and Lady Aribeth?"

"You are comparing _that _fiasco with the current situation? You can't be serious, Casavir."

"I am gravely serious," he said coolly. "And I would not call it a fiasco, but a _tragedy _of the worst sort. Neverwinter stood by and did nothing as an innocent man, _a devoted priest of Tyr, _was brutally murdered by an angry mob. And to add insult to injury, no trial was held to bring the murderers to justice, nor was his name ever cleared after the fact. He was buried in the Tomb of the Betrayers, where his body still lies today, his spirit still crying out for justice. It was this travesty that caused Lady Aribeth's fall from grace, as the city failed to provide her help when she needed it most. You abandoned your champion, and she abandoned you."

"I still don't see what this has to do with anything." Nevalle was getting impatient.

"Then you are dangerously blind, Nevalle. The situation now might appear to be different. There is no doubt that Bishop is guilty of his crimes, nor is the Captain an elven paladin of Tyr in danger of bringing ruin to the city she once served. But the spirit of the matter has not changed. Nasher is pursuing the easy path of convenience and expedience once again, Neverwinter seeks the path of blood instead of justice, and the city's greatest hero since the Luskan War is being abandoned in her time of need. You may not choose to see the similarities, but they are as plain as this keep's walls to me."

"I should have known better than to expect any sense from you on the matter," Nevalle spat. "From someone who turned his back on his _duty, _I should expect little else. I had hoped you changed, Casavir, but I can see now such hopes are in vain."

"I had similar hopes as well," Casavir replied calmly. "For you, for Nasher, for the city. That you had all changed, had learned from the mistakes of the past. I see that my hopes were in vain as well. But I do wish to thank you, Nevalle, for enlightening me. I now realize, more than ever, that my leaving the service of Neverwinter was the right decision. Though the Captain helped quell many doubts for me before, it is always good to have further confirmation from the source."

"I believe this conversation is over," Nevalle growled through gritted teeth. "I'm sure you can see yourself out."

"Indeed I can." Casavir got up and walked towards the door, then stopped. Without turning back, he said, "Remember, Nevalle, Tyr's justice does not solely apply to criminals. In the hearts of men and nations, He balances His scales as well. I ask you this: when the time comes for Him to judge Neverwinter and her leaders, which way will the scales tip? It is something I hope you will ponder. Good day." With that, Casavir left the office and closed the door loudly behind him.

Casavir, whose mood had grown darker after his confrontation with Nevalle, decided his day would be best spent in the temple in prayer and meditation. He needed Tyr's strength and guidance more than anything right now. Neverwinter might not care about her, but he still did. Even if she was not meant to be his love, she had always been his friend, despite everything.

"Nasher and Nevalle might have given up on you, but I _will not,_" he whispered as he made his way through the courtyard to the temple.

***********************************************

He had spent the day before the altar of Tyr meditating upon his god, praying and contemplating his faith and beliefs, asking for guidance and wisdom. That night, Tyr answered.

His sleep was far from peaceful, and he had woken several times. Eventually, he drifted into a deep sleep, and that is when it began.

_He woke to find himself sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard of Crossroad Keep. The light of a full moon washed the courtyard in a silvery blue radiance, reflecting off the frost on the ground like thousands of diamonds. The normal sounds of keep life were absent, and as he looked around, he saw he was alone. It was eerily silent. _

_A soft hand brushed his shoulder and he turned to see who was there. He was stunned to find that it was no creature of the Realms, but the higher planes. Long hair of purest silver was braided into many plaits that framed a face of unimaginable beauty. Her skin was softly golden, radiating a light of its own. She was garbed in magnificent robes of blue and gold, and a sleeveless mythril chainmail tunic was worn over them. A brilliant golden sword was strapped to her hip. Silvery, gossamer wings unfurled behind her, and eyes of the deepest sapphire blue gazed at him with unearthly intensity. A planetar. Judging by the colors of her robes, she was more than likely one of Tyr's celestial servants. He bowed his head in respect. She took his hand, and saying nothing, beckoned him to follow her through the front gates of the keep. _

_When they emerged on the other side, they were, to his surprise, not in the surrounding farmlands that nestled near Crossroad Keep, but somewhere very different. Virgin snow dusted trees and blanketed the earth two feet deep. The night sky was a grey blur as pregnant clouds gave birth to squalling flurries. He looked at the trees, and realized that several were a species unfamiliar to him. The absolute silence that was present in the courtyard of the keep was here as well, and the entire scene had a strange, alien feel to it. Even his breath came in silence. He turned to the planetar, puzzled. She said nothing, and motioned for him to follow her. _

_They walked through woodland for several minutes until they came upon a large outcropping of rock. From a small, shallow cave in the rock, he saw the flickering of firelight, and the planetar nodded. He followed her towards it, certain that there was something very important she wanted him to see. Stepping inside, he saw four figures ringing the fire._

_The woodland he had just emerged from was strange in its own right, but did not compare to sheer oddness of the scene before him. A large, hulking shape that looked painted in an array of dizzying colors lay curled around something, and as Casavir looked closer, it resembled an unusually large, and unusually colorful, bear. To the creature's right reclined a man, who in all respects, was as strange as the bear-thing. His skin was a vivid blue-violet, and his hair, a pale shade of blue-grey, lay braided on one shoulder. A bored expression graced his handsome features as he watched rainbow sparks of light dance from his fingertips. He turned to the bear shape, and though the blue man's lips moved, Casavir heard no sound. _

_Sitting cross legged across from the blue man sat a beautiful winged woman whose skin matched the pale pearl grey of her wings. A crop of downy, snow white hair crowned her head, and her eyes, which resembled obsidian mirrors, held a deep sadness in them. He noticed an amulet around her neck, and with closer study, saw that it was a holy symbol of Ilmater. She caressed it gently, and though he could hear nothing as her lips moved, he got the impression that she was singing. _

_Between the winged singer and the blue man was the fourth figure, and unlike the others, Casavir at least had an idea of what she was. Though seemingly human, her head, unlike the other two, was completely shaved and decorated with an intricate pattern of tattoos. Golden eyes were rimmed with black kohl, and her skin, a pale golden color, looked as if it had not seen much sunlight. What was most noticeable, however, were her robes: brilliant and red, they were decorated in strange, arcane symbols. On her lap lay an open book, which he suspected was most likely her spellbook. She did not appear to be reading it; instead, she looked like she was talking to a bizarre little winged creature sitting next to her. Though he had never met one like her, he had heard enough stories and studied enough of lore regarding Faerun's darker cabals and sects to recognize that her tattoos and attire marked her as a member of one of the most dreaded brotherhoods in the Realms: a Red Wizard of Thay. Instinctively, he grasped his holy symbol and reached for his weapon, only to remember he was not carrying it. He turned to the planetar, and her expression was calm. She nodded towards the odd group. She wanted him to see something here. _

_He waited patiently for what seemed like an eternity, and eventually, the blue man and Red Wizard slipped into their bedrolls. The winged woman's lips moved in silence, and a swirling mass of air appeared at the entrance of the cave, after which she slipped into what seemed like a meditative trance. A guardian elemental, he reasoned, summoned to stand watch as the group slept. _

_Another eternity passed as he watched the strange party sleep, when he noticed something stirring from beside the colorful bear-thing. A shadow outline of a smaller head poked up from beside the sleeping creature, and for a moment, Casavir wondered if the strange giant had young it was guarding. As the form moved closer to the fire, its face became visible, and his eyes widened in surprise. Unlike the others, he knew that face almost as well as he knew his own. _

_She knelt next to the fire and glanced around at the others as they slept. Flamelight danced over the sharp oval of her face as she stood up and turned towards the cave entrance. He saw that she was wearing boots and a cloak of dark grey fur, and her leather armor, padded and lined against the cold, was of a design he had never seen before. More importantly, however, he noticed something that troubled him. Despite the many layers of protective clothing she undoubtedly wore to ward off the deep winter chill, she looked thinner than he remembered. Her skin, normally pale on its own, held a faint greyish cast, and she looked incredibly ill. The expression on her face was grim and tortured, and her eyes had a fevered, hungry look to them that sent a shiver down his spine. But there was no denying it; it was her. The Captain. _

_Despite a feeling of wrongness that seemed to emanate from her, his heart briefly lightened. He had found her, and whatever was wrong with her, he would find out and help her. Yet when he reached out to embrace her, she passed through him as if he were made of thin air. She looked nervously at the air elemental, which stood still as she staggered by it and out of the mouth of the cave. He tried calling her name, but dead silence remained. He turned to the planetar, and she nodded towards the Captain. They left the cave and followed her. _

_As they followed her, he noticed she moved liked a wounded animal, lacking the normal catlike grace and speed she normally possessed. A few times she stumbled in the snow, and it would take her several minutes to get back up, appearing to heave and gasp as she did. When she fell, Casavir knelt next to her and tried to heal her, to hold her, to help her, but his hands always passed through her as if she were illusion. Frustrated, he tried to curse, but the maddening silence of the dark dreamscape prevailed. He looked at the planetar pleadingly. Her expression changed, and there was a deep, unfathomable sadness in her eyes. She held her hands out in a gesture of helplessness. _

_It was not long before they came upon what appeared to be an ethereal badger. The ghost-like creature at first took no notice of the Captain, seeming content to watch snow flakes drift onto a nearby bush. She, however, war far from disinterested, and she eyed the creature with a hungry intensity that made Casavir stomach turn. She closed her eyes, and suddenly, a dark wave of something indescribably foul flashed from her. The badger jumped and its snout curled into a snarl as it charged her. She whipped out a rapier and a dagger and waited for the creature to attack, the unholy hunger in her eyes reaching a fevered pitch. _

_Despite her physical weakness, the badger was no match for her. The creature only hit her once, but it now lay mortally wounded before her. He expected that she would simply dispatch it and be done with it, so he was unprepared for what came next. Her arms hung limply at her sides as her weapons dropped in the snow. She fell to her knees, and stared intently at the wounded badger before her. He eyes rolled to the back of her head, and suddenly, went completely black. _

_Without warning, her flesh erupted into ribbons of darkness as something tore free from inside her. It looked akin to shadowy spider or octopus, except shadow could not describe it. It was blacker than the darkest of shadows, blacker than even the King of Shadows she had slain. Black and shadow could not adequately describe it, and the feelings it gave him just looking at it made the worse pit fiend or balor seem righteous by comparison. There was only one thought that came to his mind as he looked in abject horror at the thing that had just ripped through the flesh of his beloved friend: a screaming, hungry void. _

_The void things tentacles waved menacingly at the helpless badger before it, and he felt the creature's terror as it tried flee. Casavir tried to move, to run to the creature's aid and defend it from whatever that abomination was, but his muscles would not obey. He remained frozen to the spot, and could only watch as the void-thing's tentacles shot out and grabbed the helpless badger, pulling the squirming, ghostly form into its black nexus until it had been totally consumed. No trace of the badger remained, and the spidery abomination retreated back into the slumped body of the Captain. _

_She sat up, and he saw the blackness had faded from her eyes, returning them to their normal pale green. Her expression for several moments was of blank confusion. Casavir saw that the greyness had vanished from her skin, and far from the frail, sickly thing she had been moments before, she looked...restored somehow. The blank look vanished from her face, replaced by confusion as she looked around. Then the reality of what had happened sunk in, and her face twisted into an expression of horror, disgust, and shame as she slumped forward into the snow, her body trembling. _

_Casavir looked down, and saw that his own hands were shaking. Though he could not hear her, he knew she was weeping. He walked over to her, and though his touch passed through her, he still tried to grasp her shoulders and gently pull her up. Though no words issued from his mouth, he still tried to speak to her, to comfort her, to find out what happened. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the planetar standing over him, her eyes both sad and compassionate as she looked at the crumpled form of the Captain. She gently took his arm and pulled him to his feet, motioning behind her. He turned in that direction and saw the four strange individuals from the cave making their way towards her. The planetar led Casavir over to a nearby tree. _

_The great bear-thing walked up to her and sniffed around. A pained, knowing expression crossed its intelligent face and he nudged the Captain gently. She refused to move. It grasped her gently in its maw, like a mother bear picking up a cub, and carried her towards the other three. They all turned and walked back in the direction of the cave. _

_He turned once again to the planetar, trying to voice the many questions he now had, but she shook her head sadly. He felt as if she wanted to speak, to explain what he had just witnessed, but something prohibited her from doing so. He looked back in the direction that the Captain and the strange band had retreated to. The forest began to fade into a grey mist, and as he turned to catch a final glimpse of the planetar, one thought filled his mind with such power and force that it remained on his lips as the dreamscape vanished. _

Casavir woke with a start, the words audible now as they escaped his lips. He was still shaking. The imagery of the dream was still strong, and he knew for certain that Tyr had sent him the vision.

"Great, merciful Tyr," he whispered into the pre-dawn darkness. "What evil has befallen her?"

He quickly got out of bed and dressed hastily. Glancing briefly out his window, he guessed it was still an hour before even the earliest of risers would wake, but he felt that it could not wait. Father Ivarr, Sand, and Aldanon needed to know what he had seen.

As he made haste down the darkened corridors of the keep, he could not help repeating that last, terrible thought that struck him as the dream ended.

"A thing that should have never been, an ancient injustice allowed to fester."


	6. Nothing Else Matters

"Were it anyone else barging into my quarters and disturbing my reverie before the crack of dawn to tell me about a bad dream, they would be suffering from the effects of a very nasty cantrip that inflicts a personal rash I keep handy for such occasions," Sand said dryly as he neatly laid a napkin across his lap. "However, given the nature of the bad dream, and the fact your normally unruffled demeanor has been significantly ruffled enough by the experience for you ruffle others, I can forgive your minor trespass easily enough."

"I'm glad you understand," Casavir replied, equally dry. They sat at a table in the corner of the keep's main dining hall for an earlier than usual breakfast. The elf wizard, who had been slightly more abrasive than normal at being roused so early, grew intensely interested after being given a brief and basic recounting of the dream, and told Casavir to wake the other companions and meet in the dinning hall to discuss it further over the morning meal. Neeshka and Khelgar were approaching the table with their trays. Zhjaeve, Elanee, and Grobnar were still in the mess line waiting to be served. A plate of diced potatoes and sausage links sat in front of the paladin untouched. He was too excited to eat.

Sand's appetite seemed unaffected. He had already started on his plate of fruit and honeyed nuts. Soon, all of the companions were seated with their various plates, each looking at Casavir intently through bleary eyes still semi-saturated with sleep. Sand nodded to him. "Now that we are all present, perhaps you would like to share this unsettling dream in greater detail."

Casavir nodded gravely, and closing his eyes, he began recounting the dream in more detail, his palms sweating as he remembered. The strange assembly of individuals in the cave, the Captain's apparent weakness, the...spider thing that burst from her flesh. As he finished, he looked around the table at the faces assembled, hoping perhaps for a flash of insight or knowledge in one of them, but after several quiet moments, the only expressions were of confusion. Sand's brow furrowed.

"Yes, I can see more why this whole 'vision' of yours was disturbing," the wizard said. He studied the paladin. "Forgive my curiosity, but simply to rule out everything, you didn't happen to eat any disagreeable foods the night before, overindulge a bit in _The Phoenix, _or drink one of Grobnar's potions by mistake, did you?" Casavir shot him an annoyed look, and Sand held his hands up in placation. "Just thought I'd ask before we go any further." Rubbing his forehead, the elf continued. "So basically, you have had a dream, mostly likely sent by Tyr himself, that gave you a glimpse of our Captain, in most...unusual circumstances. The fact that you even had the dream raises many questions, as divinations by experts in matters arcane and divine alike have only been met with silence."

"I am certain that Tyr's hand was in this," Casavir stated. "If not directly by Him, then some very powerful ally. As a paladin sworn to His service, I know, by everything I am and believe in, that His touch was definitely upon the dream. Of that, I am more certain of than anything."

"Well, your conviction is good enough for me, then," Sand said. "So now all that's left is to figure out what it means. First thing to determine is symbolism, if any exists, and decipher the meaning in it. However, that is something probably better discussed with Father Ivarr, since any symbolism or metaphors of a divine nature might be better understood by him."

"Perhaps, but I do not believe it was such a dream. As the planetar led me through the vision, though she said nothing, somehow, I _knew_ that I was seeing something that was happening at the moment, almost like a scrying. Don't ask me how I know, but I...just know." He closed his eyes again briefly, thinking about the utter certainty that had washed over him as the dream faded.

"If that is the case, then the task becomes one of finding out just where it was you were in the dream, who the colorful mix of individuals are, and exactly what has happened to her, which, given the failure of any divination to find her, will be a very difficult task, one that will involve a lot of pouring through books, contacting experts, and picking through Aldanon's brains for clues." Sand sighed deeply. "The last option being one I relish least but might provide more results."

Neeshka put her knife and fork down. "Is she even still on _this _plane any more?" she queried. "From the sounds of it, the crowd she was with aren't exactly what you'd find hanging out together in your local tavern. I mean, a big rainbow bear, an angel, a bald wizardess, and a...erm...blue guy...it sound's more like something you might encounter in one of the other planes, like the Astral."

"She does have a point," Elanee agreed as she stirred her bowl of porridge. "You said that there were trees of a type you were unfamiliar with, and there were strange, ethereal animals wandering in the forest. It is no woodland that I am familiar with, or have even heard of."

"There are Outer Planes where such things are commonplace, such as Elysium or the Beastlands," Zhjaeve mused. "Though I doubt, from your description, that she is there. Know that in those planes, evil is a very rare thing, and an evil presence, like the one you stated ripped forth from the Kalach-Cha's flesh, would not last very long in such a place."

"Or she could very well still be here in Faerun, somewhere cold and nasty where big black spiders hide under people's skin and jump out when some poor unsuspecting creature strays too close," Grobnar suggested as he lifted his mug of milk. "Believe me, I've seen far stranger things right here in the Realms. Almost like the one time I was on my way..."

"Bah! Shut yer damned mouth, gnome, before I stuff my whole plate down yer gullet!" Khelgar growled. "It's too damned early in the mornin' for yer nonsense, and my head feels like it's gonna split from all the ale I drank last night."

"Can we please return to the matter at hand?" Sand groaned. "You know, the fact that our Captain is missing and Casavir actually might have our first lead?" Shaking his head, he turned back to Casavir. "So you say she was ill, stumbling through the forest, picked a fight with a ghost creature, then a...thing jumped out of her and devoured it? And then the bear and the others came and found her and carried her back?"

"Yes." Casavir had picked up his fork, but instead of eating, he picked at his food absently. "This thing that was in her, this presence, I felt it emerge even from the distance, and I say to you this: Never in my life have I felt anything like it. I do not know if it could even be called a presence. It felt like a hideous, corrupt void, a nothingness that reached out and desired to draw everything into it. Even the in the depths of my soul, I recoiled from it. The planetar even turned her gaze, both saddened and terrified by it. The pure _wrongness_ of the thing."

"Perhaps we erred and have not destroyed the King of Shadows as completely as we believed," Zhjaeve said quietly, her voice filling with dread. "Perhaps some part of him was embedded within her when he was unmade, much like the shard that was buried in her chest when the Sword of Gith shattered."

Casavir shook his head. "No. I do not believe it has anything to do with him. This thing, whatever it was, felt far more evil, more unnatural, than the King of Shadows, of that I am certain. The corruption and darkness I sensed thickly in the sanctum was nothing compared to what I experienced in the dream."

"More evil than the King of Shadows? That certainly doesn't bode well for the Captain." Sand looked grim. "Tell me more about these others she was with. You said you believed one of them to be a Red Wizard?"

"I believe so. Her head was shaved with strange tattoos, and she wore red robes that looked strange. Though I have never actually seen a Red Wizard in person, I learned of them when I was in training, and the markings and clothing matched what I was told."

"From your description, you are most likely correct, which adds another disturbing angle to this puzzle. Red Wizards are well known for many things, things that I wouldn't wish on a Luskan, let alone our Captain. If she has been abducted by the Red Wizards, then perhaps this thing that has infested her was their doing. Some sort of hideous magical experiment or possession they put into her as part of one of their twisted schemes."

"Why would they do something like that?" Grobnar asked. "As far as we know, she's never had any dealings with them, so what would they want her for? Thay is on the opposite side of Faerun from us, hundreds of leagues away. If they just wanted to grab some poor soul to use as an experimental rabbit, surely there are plenty of easier prospects closer to home."

"Oh, Red Wizards aren't limited to their homeland," Sand explained. "They have many enclaves scattered throughout the realms, supposedly for 'trade' purposes, so they can be found everywhere from the Silver Marches to Kara Tur. Gods only know what they are _really _up to in such cases, and any city that allows such even a tiny cabal of them to operate within it's walls is only asking for trouble. As to why they would abduct the Captain, it's anyone's guess, really. What passes for reason and logic in their twisted minds is a mystery to every civilized race on Faerun."

"Maybe they did to her what Garius did to me." Casavir looked over at Neeshka, struck by the quiet, yet disturbed tone in her voice. She was staring sullenly at the table. "I mean, she's a tiefling too. Garius said my baetezu blood was useful for things, like the geas. She's of tanari'i extraction, but the lower planes blood is lower planes blood. If these wizards are as bad as you say, maybe that's what they did."

"Ah, now there's a happy thought," Sand muttered. "Though you do have a point, and certainly not out of the realm of possibilities, either. However, as we all know now, you are no ordinary fiendling, and the whole reason Garius was interested in you was the fact your bloodline and breeding were so unusual. The Captain, bless her, might have been special in a lot of ways, but as far as tieflings go, she was quite run of the mill."

"As far as we know." Neeshka didn't sound convinced. "Besides, there's more than one way to cast a geas anyway."

"I understand your concerns, and normally, I would share them." Casavir looked at Sand, then Neeshka. "In this, however, I do not believe the Red Wizard was responsible for whatever happened. She did not seem malevolent, and I sensed no evil from her. Had she been source of the troubles, I am certain Tyr would have made this clear in some way. Yet He did not. Furthermore, we cannot forget the presence of the winged woman, the celestial who was clearly a servant or priestess of Ilmater. I do not believe any disciple of the Crying God would be in the company of anyone who committed acts of evil and cruelty. That in itself also deepens my convictions that the Red Wizard is not a threat, at least, not to the Captain, nor is she directly involved in whatever happened to her."

"A paladin defending the innocence of a Red Wizard? Now I _really _have heard everything." The mage clasped his hands in front of him. "Very well, your points are valid. So we will assume, for now, the Red Wizard has nothing to do with this, and for whatever reason, an Ilmatari priestess straight from the slopes of Celestia or some similar locale finds the wizardess suitable company. There still remains the other two, one whose description sounds like a genasi or other planetouched, and a bear that looks like it fell in a vat of garish paint. I also noticed you mention nothing about a certain warlock, so his whereabouts remain even more of a mystery here."

"No, Ammon Jerro was not there, nor was there any indication of where he might be. As for the other two, like the wizard and the priestess, I sensed no evil or ill-intent from either. The bear even behaved like a mother bear looking after a cub towards her. The blue man was a spellcaster of some sort. Towards the end of the dream, as they came to collect her, there was a brief moment where I felt as if he were looking directly at me, or through me."

"Interesting. Now you say, as the dream ended, a phrase stuck in your mind even as you woke, words that you felt summed up the dream, yes?"

"A thing that should have never been, an ancient injustice allowed to fester." Even now, the words remained as strong and fresh on Casavir's lips as they had been when he first woke. "Those words came of their own accord, and I believe they were placed upon my tongue by Tyr himself."

"Another piece of an ever growing puzzle." Sand quickly finished his breakfast and stood up. "It seems that we now have something to work with. I will get this information to Startear, Aldanon, and any others who have been engaged in the search. Perhaps now that we have something to go on, our search might prove more fruitful. I trust you have spoken with Father Ivarr about this already?"

"Yes. He wanted to confer with the priests involved in the search first, and asked me to meet with him before noon. I plan on going to the temple after I have washed up and finished my morning prayers."

"Excellent. He could probably give us further insight into things, and perhaps even point us in the right direction. Now if you will excuse me, I have an enigma before me to unravel, and the day isn't getting any younger." Sand turned and strode out of the hall with a noticeable bounce in his step. Whether it was the pleasure of knowing the Captain still lived, or the pleasure of receiving a complex mystery to be solved, Casavir could not say. He thought it might have been a bit of both.

"Hmph. Look at that. Left his damned plate on the table, expecting one of us to take it back to the kitchen," Khelgar muttered. "If the damned elf thinks I'm gonna be his serving wench and clean up after him, he's out of his pointy eared skull."

"He probably forgot, Khelgar," Elanee remarked. "Wizards can sometimes be absent-minded, you know, and Sand has quite a bit on his mind right now. I will return it when I am finished with my meal."

"Pheh. That's exactly what he was hopin' you'd think," the dwarf retorted. "And you're volunteerin'. No moss gatherin' on that elf's skull, for sure." Khelgar gathered his plate and utensils and headed for the kitchen.

"I am going to my grove to confer with the land," Elanee said as took her and Sand's plates onto her tray. "Sharing your vision with nature's creatures might yield insights. Perhaps some of the creatures and spirits of the land might know of this strange forest and creatures you told us about."

"Know that I shall contact my people as well," Zhjaeve added. "The collected knowledge of the Circle of Zerthimon might contain something of value, and our knowing of the Outer Planes could further narrow our search, if that is indeed where the Kalach-Cha walks now."

"I'm going back down to the basement to work on a few ideas," Grobnar mumbled through a mouthful of poached eggs. "I find that if I concentrate too hard on finding something, it remains elusive, but if I leave my mind wander into other areas, answers tend to come charging right at me. Maybe composing a tune or poem about your vision might even jar my memory. All these bits of lore I've collected over there years must contain something we can use." He finished his meal and followed the two women over to the kitchen.

"You haven't touched your food," Neeshka noted, nodding her head towards the paladin's still full plate. "Bet it's all gone cold by now."

"I guess I am not very hungry this morning." He pushed his plate to the side. "I'm sure one of the keep's dogs or cats will be pleased, though."

"Here, give it to me, I'll feed it to them. Might as well do something useful, seeing how I can't do much else right now." She scraped the food onto her own half full plate. "And I'm not gonna bitch like Khelgar. I'll take your plate in for you. You go on. You got things to do and people to meet."

"That is very kind of you." Casavir studied the tiefling. Her normally enthusiastic demeanor had darkened somewhat, and a troubled expression had settled on her impish features. As she was getting up to leave, he said, "Neeshka, something is troubling you. Do you wish to tell me what's wrong?"

She looked a little taken aback, but shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Probably just woke up too early, that's all. After I feed the strays, I'm going to my office to check if any new intelligence reports have come in. I'm still the spymaster here, at least until that princess Nevalle gets around to replacing me. After that, I'll probably go see what Grobby is up to. He may be weird at times, but unlike Aldanon, his weirdness doesn't do my head in. He tells pretty good stories, too."

Casavir knew she was not telling him everything, but decided not to press her too much right now. Still, he felt concern. "As you wish. Perhaps later, if you like, you could join Khelgar and I for a bit of sparring. I think I have regained most of my fitness, but haven't tested my ability to dodge more subtle attacks."

"Sure, if you want." Her voice was dull. "Catch you later, maybe." She got up and left him in silence.

As he watched her leave, his concern grew deeper, and he decided that he would check up on her after he met with Ivarr. Despite his disapproval of some aspects of her chosen profession, he had grown fond of the tiefling as a friend during their travels, and though her ancestry was of the lower planes, her heart and spirit were not. Her quick mind and boundless energy made her easy to like for anyone willing to look past the obvious traces of infernal blood.

A promise he had once made to the Captain came to the forefront of his thoughts, and his mind filled with the memory of the conversation, held one night as she sat awake with him on watch while they were camped out on their way to Mount Guldardrym.

"_Cas," she said, studying their surroundings with passive interest. He looked over, and noted the faint red glint in her pupils. She was surveying the surrounding area with her inborn dark-sight. _

"_My Lady?" _

_He heard her snort derisively, and a tone of irritation crept in her voice. "What did I tell you about calling me that? Just because Nasher slapped some meaningless title on me doesn't mean I've embraced it. I'm not anyone's 'lady', squire or not. I'm me, I am your friend, and I have a name." _

"_Forgive me. I did not mean to offend." He winced slightly at her chastisement. _

_She waved it off. "Forget it. I'll break you of that habit sooner or later. I had something I wanted to ask you. A favor, you might say, but something very important to me." _

"_Very well. What did you wish of me?" _

_She was silent for several minutes before she finally spoke. Her voice grew softer, but her words were heavy with determination. "If anything ever happens to me, I want you to promise me you'll look out for Neeshka." _

"_My L.. I am sorry. Whatever brought this on?" He was quite surprised at her request. This was not what he was expecting. _

"_I just want to make sure that things are taken care of as I like them, should I end up dead or worse. Shandra died, and she left a lot of loose ends, a lot of things unsaid. It's too late now to do anything for her. But I'm still alive as of now, though for how long my luck will hold is anyone's guess. I could end up as a fire giant snack tomorrow, or get struck by lighting or croak in my sleep. If I die, I want to go knowing that I'm not leaving anyone flapping in the wind." _

_He found her sudden talk of death disturbing. "I promised you I would defend you with my life, and so long as I live and have the power to act, I will not allow any harm to come to you." _

"_That isn't what I asked, Casavir. Stop dodging the question. If I die, will you promise me that you will look out for Neeshka?" Her gaze, unusually intense and serious, was fixed on his face, and he found he could not turn away. She demanded a definitive answer of him, and would not let it go until she had one. _

"_If something were to happen to you..." He found the idea of her dying before him too painful to contemplate, and his voice temporarily failed. Her gaze did not waver. "If such a fate were to befall you before me, then I will have failed you, and having failed you, then I would be unworthy of any trust you could place on me." _

"_Nice try. Now, for the love of Tyr, will you answer my fucking question? Or is that too much to ask of you?" She shook her head. "You are strong, Cas, and loyal, but you are still only human. You can't shift the realms, and if I die, it won't be because of some perceived failure on your part, but a roll of the cosmic dice game that the gods seem to enjoy playing."_

_He shifted his gaze down to the ground, feeling ashamed of himself. Despite his reluctance to discuss this, he did owe her an answer. "Very well. I give you my solemn oath that should death come for you before me, I shall do everything within my capabilities of making certain Neeshka is looked after. You have my word, as Tyr as my witness." _

_Her expression softened, and a faint smile played on her lips. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" She turned back to surveying the surrounding area. "The others, I know will be taken care of. I'm not too worried about them. Sand has his shop and his studies, Khelgar has his clan even if Keros is being a stubborn dick. Qara can go back to being a spoiled bitch, Zhjaeve will probably go back to Limbo, Elanee will find some new circle of druids to join, and Grobnar has a talent for always finding somewhere to go or something to do. Bishop probably won't be that bothered, and will have enough gold he can go buy a brothel or enough magic arrows to turn Luskan into his personal pincushion. Neeshka, however..." She started scratching patterns in the dirt with the tip of her boot. "Neeshka is tough, and she's a survivor. I'll give her that. She can survive on her own, true, especially now that Leldon is dust. But there's more to life than surviving, and people have always treated her like shit because of what she is. She needs friends she can trust, that she can turn to, that will treat her like a person. On her own, she's a target for every asshole with some chip on their shoulder. She's never had people who cared about her until now, and if I'm gone, I at least want to make sure she knows that someone still does care about her well-being and happiness." _

"_I understand your concerns, and I am honored that you have placed your trust in me. If...something should come to pass as you have stated, I will do whatever I can to look out for her well-being, both physical and spiritual." _

"_Thanks Cas." Her smile grew wider with contentment. "Look, I'm sorry to have had a go at you like that. I know you don't like to talk about any of us dying, and the subject has really bummed you out. But it was important to me, and I had to know. I just couldn't let it lie." _

"_I understand. I see that unburdening yourself has given you a measure of peace, and that in itself is enough for me. Now that we have said what needs to be said, can we discuss something else?" _

_She leaned over and patted his arm. "Of course! In fact, since I've been such a downer to you, let me make it up by sharing a few funny things Deekin told me about the other day." _

_Casavir felt his mood lift, and smiling, replied, "Of course. I would enjoy hearing them." _

The memory lingered for a moment, then faded back to the dining hall, which was slowly filling up with the first shift of Greycloaks. But the promise was still as fresh in his mind as the night he swore it.

"You have my promise, my Captain," he whispered as he left the hall for his quarters. "Whatever troubles her, I shall see to it that the matter is resolved, one way or another."

***********************************************

That afternoon, Neeshka did not show up for practice, and after a few rounds of sparring with Khelgar, Casavir excused himself to go look for her. Khelgar, for his part, was not upset, and decided that he wouldn't mind spending the afternoon with Jacoby sharing tips and tricks of smithing. Promising the dwarf that tomorrow's session would be longer and more intensive, he headed for the keep's basement to see if she was down there with Grobnar.

The sounds of tapping metal and the smells of lubricating oils greeted the paladin as he descended the stairs. Grobnar was at his work station taking apart an object that looked like a metal butter churn. Around him lay various bits and pieces of junk he had collected and put to some use. After recovering from his own resurrection and injuries, the gnome had completely immersed himself in a variety of new projects focused on developing prosthetics and devices to assist the injured and crippled in their own recovery. Some of them were already in use, and could be seen on some of the soldiers and staff around the keep. His efforts and successes had gained him a lot of respect from both the temple infirmary and the Greycloaks, and even some in Neverwinter had caught wind of his creations and visited the keep to see for themselves.

Grobnar was whistling as he pulled the handle from the churn-like object, and as he turned to place it on the floor, he spotted Casavir and smiled broadly. "Why, Sir Casavir! What a surprise! I seldom see you down here!" He hopped off the bench and walked over to the paladin. "Don't mind the mess. I had an idea for a levitating chair earlier to make mobility easier for some of the more severely crippled, but it didn't quite get off the ground, if you'll pardon the pun." He brushed his hands over his apron and set a spanner down. "So what can I do for you?"

"Hello, Grobnar," Casavir replied. "I came down here to see if Neeshka has been by today. She said earlier that I might find her here."

"Neeshka? She did come down earlier, but only stayed briefly. She needed her lock and trap tools re-calibrated, though she didn't say what for." He frowned. "It was an odd request, since if she really wanted to break into anything, her tools were more than adequate for any lock or trap this keep has. Well, any save for those in the Captain's quarters."

"The Captain's Quarters?"

"Oh, yes. When Veedle first finished it, the Captain had me design and build some very intricate and complex locks, ones that would be near impossible to pick by ordinary means. Then she and Neeshka spent hours devising ways to get past them, and eventually succeeded, though it required some adjustments and specializations to normal picks. They also created some very complex traps that only the two of them really new how to neutralize, and I believe the Captain wanted to install them in a few areas she declared off limits." Grobnar smacked his forehead and shook his head. "Of course! That's what she wanted the modifications for. She wants to go into the Captain's suite. Though why I couldn't guess. There are no valuables stored in there to my knowledge, and I doubt even if there were, Neeshka would want to steal them. She simply isn't that kind of person, and she's as upset as the rest of us about our dear leader's absence."

"I agree. She has most likely gone there for another reason. Thank you, Grobnar, for letting me know. I will see if she is there." Casavir turned to leave, but Grobnar stopped him.

"Oh, before you leave, there was something I thought I should mention. I decided to seek out Kistrel's counsel on the matter of your dream, and what we discussed, well, it was quite enlightening, really."

Casavir's brow furrowed. "You...discussed my dream with Kistrel? The spider?"

"Oh, yes indeed! Don't be let the fact that he is an enormous glowing blue spider with mandibles capable of eviscerating a troll or umberhulk fool you. For an arachnid, he is exceedingly intelligent and quite a conversationalist, once you learn to speak...um..._Arachnish. _Quite a fascinating tongue, or chittering, however you wish to term it. He has been teaching me quite a bit, and one of these days, I think I shall have enough mastery to compose an entire poem or song with it! Just think of the possibilities!"

"Indeed," Casavir said. "A subject for another time. So tell me. What did you learn?"

"Learn? Ah, yes. Well, one thing I've learned about Kistrel, is the reason he is such an extraordinary spider is because he isn't just _any _spider, but a _fey _spider. When I told him about the big bear you saw, and the ghostly animals in the forest, he was certain that the creatures you were describing were fey as well, especially if they were displaying some sort of intelligence. He also said that fey beasts of all types can be found in many places in the realms, though many of their human names are unknown to him. Regardless, at least we know a little more than before."

"This is true, Grobnar. I thank you for...conferring with Kistrel and bringing this to our attention. I am certain that Sand or Aldanon will find it useful." Casavir could not help feeling a touch of awe for the eccentric gnome. Though many were quick to dismiss his ideas as delusions or flights of fancy, more often than not, they produced fruits that few others would have imagined or tried to cultivate.

"Always happy to help. I'm going to get back to..." He glanced around at his workshop, a touch of confusion on his face. "Well, seems I forgot what I was doing before you came in, but don't worry. Couldn't have been that important. Otherwise, it will come back to me." He waved to the paladin before returning to the chaos at hand.

Casavir returned to the main floor and stopped by the library to tell Sand and Aldanon what Grobnar had discovered. He thanked Tyr that Sand, instead of dismissing it out of hand because of the source, actually jotted it down and said that for once, the "idiot gnome" might have actually come up with usable idea. Casavir left the library and headed to the Captain's quarters.

Immediately, he knew he had found Neeshka. The door to the Captain's quarters, which had been locked and marked with a wax seal since the day they had left for the Vale of the Mere, was slightly ajar, and the dust on the floor was freshly disturbed. Soft violet light from a magical glowglobe spilled out into the hall, and he could hear footsteps within. Quietly, he stepped in.

A soft breeze from an open window caressed his face as he took in the room. The place was in a state of disarray, which, for the Captain, was expected. It seemed the same level of chaos and disorder that followed in her wake had found it's way to her personal living space. Clothing was flung carelessly about, some even hanging off of paintings and wall fixtures. The chest of drawers had two drawers open, overflowing with clothes and things hastily crammed in. Empty liquor bottles, some whose contents had long ago spilled out on the carpets, littered the floor. A pile of dirty dishes and cutlery sat on the writing desk, where a jumble of books and papers also sat piled haphazardly, some dumped on the floor next to it. What looked like old or broken picks and tools were haphazardly discarded everywhere, and the bed was half obscured in a jumble of unmade linens and discarded gear. Carefully making his way through mess, he approached the dressing table, where Neeshka stood rifling through an assortment of junk, none of it which looked like cosmetics or anything else normally found on such a piece of furniture.

Too absorbed in what she was doing, Neeshka did not notice his approach until the glowglobe cast his shadow her way. She jumped and let out a string of curses, reaching for her dagger before recognizing the paladin. She shook her head in disbelief. "Of all the people I'd be worried about sneaking up on me, you are the last person on that list!"

"I was not sneaking up on you, Neeshka. I came here to find you. I was concerned. What are you doing?" He motioned to a basket she was holding, which contained a jumble of odds and ends, none of which looked recognizable or valuable.

"This? Something I should have thought of before. Call it precaution after the fact. I told some of the servants to bring me some stuff to clean this place up. Gods, she was such a slob!"

"You have broken into the Captain's quarters so you can _clean _them?"

"No. Well, sort of, but not exactly." She looked around, taking in the enormity of the task at hand. "Say, you're here, you wanna give me a hand?"

"I would like you to explain to me what exactly is going on. You are troubled, Neeshka, this much is obvious. And sneaking into someone's room for the sake of tidying it is not normal behavior for you."

"Fine." She set the basket on the small vanity stool next to the dressing table, but it fell on the floor, taking a small pile of drying linens with it. Neeshka groaned, knocked the rest of the stuff off, and sat down.

"Well, you know when we were talking about your dream and that thing you saw come out of her, and how it made me think of the geas Garius put on me? Well, it got me thinking, that when casting those kinds of spells, all a wizard really needs is a small bit of a person. A little bit of hair, a drop of blood, fingernail pairings, you know! And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that someone could sneak in her, find that stuff amongst all this rubbish, or bribe a servant to come in and collect it, and use it to further hurt or manipulate her. I decided that rather take any chances, I'm going to destroy anything like that I find." She looked around helplessly. "If you haven't figured it out, it's probably gonna take a lot longer than I expected. You would think, that being a noble now and all, she would have at least got someone in here to clean the place periodically. So, what do you say? You wanna help me smite this unholy mess?"

"If I felt it might do some good, I would," Casavir said. "However, I doubt it would, and I did not come here for that." He looked around the room, trying to locate another chair before settling on a crate that looked like it might have once held Moonshae whiskey. Dragging it over next to Neeshka he sat down. Her actions were erratic and made little sense for the reasons she gave, but Casavir was beginning to think he understood the source of Neeshka's woes. "Garius is dead, as are his minions, Neeshka. They cannot come back and hurt you or the Captain."

"So? The source of the rituals he used are probably still out there somewhere, and anyone with enough guts could dig it up and use it again. The ritual didn't die with him, you know."

_And so now arrive at the heart of the matter, _he thought. The ordeal of the torture, abuse, and subsequent blood geas still lurked in her thoughts like an ever-present shadow, denying her the peace and resolution that should have been hers after her tormentors were slain. The knowledge that her unusual bloodline served as a magnet for some of the more powerful and devious denizens of the Hells, and that somewhere down the road, this knowledge might find it's way into the hands of an unscrupulous mage or warlock, who would might be tempted and track her down to make use of her infernal blood ties. _No wonder she is upset. She learns about the thing I saw in my dream, and it reminds her of the atrocity committed upon her own person. Sweet Tyr, I do not know what I can say to put her fears to rest. Grant me your wisdom, my Lord. _

Neeshka shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I'd rather be dead than go through that again. He...wanted me to attack you all. To kill you. And I could feel a force, controlling me. When I tried resisting it, the pain, the pressure got unreal. I...I still have nightmares about it. Where I'm in my body, yet I can't control my movements. I'm a passenger in my own skin, and I'm coming at you, all of you, with big blades where my arms were, and I'm slashing and hacking and I'm screaming but I can't stop. I close my eyes and I can hear you guys screaming and can feel my blades cutting you to pieces but it won't stop, and I open my eyes..." Dampness glistened on the rims of her eyelids, and she angrily rubbed them.

"But that did not happen," Casavir said softly, grasping one of her hands and holding it firmly. "You resisted. You _fought _it, you overcame it and turned on your tormentor. Overcoming a geas...that is no small feat, and most would have met horrible deaths for even trying. You astonished us all, Neeshka, when you did. Your will, and the desires of your own heart, are stronger than you give yourself credit for."

She looked away. "Maybe I got lucky. When I told Garius to go fuck himself, it felt like claws ripping at me from inside, and I was sure I would drop dead before the battle even started. If it happened again, I don't know if I could do it twice."

"I wish I could promise that nothing like that could ever happen again, but I cannot," Casavir replied solemnly. "However, it is unlikely, since there are probably not many who would know of it, let alone your unique ties to the lower planes. It would not be fair of me to tell you that you worry pointlessly, as I did not go through what you did. What I want you to understand, no matter what your future may hold, you have friends, many friends, who care about you, including myself, and would bring the fury of the gods upon anyone who tried to harm you. Even Khelgar, as we made our way through the Vale to the inner sanctum, after you had been abducted, was eager to find out where you had been taken, and swore he'd tear out the King of Shadow's throat with his own teeth if you had been hurt."

Neeshka arched her brows. "Really? Barrel-head was worried about me?"

"Very much so, though he phrased it differently."

"I'm surprised I couldn't hear his bellowing clear down in the sanctum." She gently disengaged her hand from his and leaned forward slightly. "What would have happened if I couldn't fight it, though? If I wasn't able to turn on Garius? You would have had no choice to but to kill me."

"No, I do not believe we would have. Sand always kept paralysis and sleep spells, wands, and scrolls handy at the Captain's request after...the near altercation between Bishop and I back when we were all still staying at the Flagon." He felt a tinge of shame and embarrassment at the thought, both because he had allowed the ranger to push him to that level of anger, and the fact that she had felt it necessary to always have a means of restraint handy because it might happen again. He forced the thought away and continued. "We would not have killed you, only disabled you until we could have returned to the keep and found a way to release you from the binding spells. She would never have let us kill you unless there was absolutely no choice, and if we had to, we would have made certain you could be resurrected."

"Is that what happened with that fucker Bishop, too?" Neeshka snorted. "Why she wouldn't let anyone kill that low-life backstabbing son-of-a-bitch?"

"No. That was something very different." He looked away. "She...still cared about him, and was devastated by his betrayal. She had no desire to kill him, and that is why she wanted to talk him out of it. To make one last appeal, either to his selfishness or to his twisted concept of freedom, with the intent on convincing him to leave. Her plan worked, and for her sake, I am glad it did. Had she failed to convince him, then she would have not spared him."

"Wait, you're actually _glad _that we _didn't _get to kill Bishop?" Neeshka stared in disbelief. "Of any of us, you had reason to hate him the most."

"I despised him then, and time has not changed that sentiment," Casavir admitted. "While I would have loved to see Bishop get his just rewards that day, it was not worth the price. For the Captain told me, as we searched Qara's corpse before the King of Shadows emerged, that had he not left, she would have not allowed anyone but herself to slay him. She felt that somehow, his treason and the damage done by it were her mistake, her folly, and that the only hand he should die by would be hers. And having to slay the man she still cared deeply about would have destroyed her ultimately. My loathing of Bishop was not as strong as my feelings for her, and there would have been no pleasure in seeing her destroyed further."

"Wow. I don't know what to say, Cas. This is...heavy. I mean, I always knew you were a pretty selfless guy, but I think you just took the whole concept to a whole new level." Her expression had softened, and a trace of wonder touched her features. "Why she ever picked that festering sack of horse shit over you, I'll never know."

Sighing deeply, Casavir replied, "In all things, right or wrong, she followed her own heart and inner voice. This was no different. Perhaps she saw something within him that was not visible to the rest of us. Whatever her reasons, what's done is done. Though I cannot deny I felt the pangs of regret and sorrow, I did not wish ill upon either of them, and the thing that angered me most about Bishop's treachery was that he hurt her in the worst way imaginable, even though there was no reason for it. If he felt so caged, he could have left at any time, and she would not have hindered him."

"Yeah. Fucking bastard. Well, for all his bluster and big talk, he sure as hell backed down from the big fight quickly enough," Neeshka said, her voice dripping with contempt. "He never really struck me as a chicken-shit. I'll bet he was afraid of the terminal ass-kicking he would have gotten had he stayed with ol' Bone-Head."

_Or, perhaps, just as likely, in his twisted, perverse way, he still held some feeling for her, and decided he didn't have the nerve to kill her after all, _Casavir thought. For some reason, he found the idea disturbing.

"Look, I'm sorry about all this, Cas," Neeshka apologized, leaning over and giving him a quick hug. "Didn't mean to be pouring acid over open wounds and all. And I am sorry I made you worry about me. I guess the whole episode in the sanctum with Garius has bugged me a lot more than I wanted to admit, and I haven't really talked about it with anyone until now. Didn't think it really mattered, and I thought people would think I was being too paranoid over nothing."

"You have no reason to feel sorry, Neeshka. You went through something very traumatic, an ordeal few would have ever experienced, and fewer still would have lived through. I am relieved that you have unburdened yourself to me, as I could tell something was troubling you deeply. I know that in the past, we might not have always seen eye to eye, but I still consider you a friend, and I am always here, should you need someone to talk to."

"Thanks, big guy. And you know, the same goes for you. I don't know too much about Tyrran religious stuff, but these ears are always yours if you ever need someone to sound off to. I'm very good at keeping secrets too, despite any rumors you might have heard to the contrary. She didn't make me Crossroad Keep spymaster on my good looks alone!" Neeshka's lips formed a lopsided grin, which Casavir found infectious.

"Of that, I have no doubt." He looked around the room in dismay. "I trust then, that we are done here? Though your idea has some merit, I do believe anyone seeking anything shed by the Captain in here would be in more danger from getting lost or devoured alive by a dirty sock golem than any danger they could further put her in."

She agreed with a snicker. "Heh. Yeah, you're right. Hells, we shouldn't have even travelled to the Vale. Just get the King of Shadows and his reaver friends to teleport in here. That would be the end of them, I think!" She stood, stretching her arms, then went over and closed the window. "Let's get out of here. I think I'm gonna eat dinner at _The Phoenix _instead of the mess hall. You wanna come with? I'm buying!"

"Certainly. Though you don't need to buy my meal. I have more than enough coin."

"Nonsense! I'm buying, and that's that." As they left the room and re-locked the door, Neeshka said, "One thing, though. If and when she ever returns, she's gonna know someone was in here, and she'll know that someone was me." She glanced sideways at him. "If she asks why, would you tell her I was in here robbing the place blind?"

Casavir frowned. "Whatever would I tell her that for?"

"Because. If she thinks I broke in to clean her room, she'll be _so _pissed off. But robbing the place, she could respect."

Chuckling, he said, "That is a concern for another day. Finding her is the main thing we must worry about. Let us focus on that."

***********************************************

Over a month had passed, and few clues to the Captain's whereabouts had been uncovered. Grobnar's suggestion that the creatures were fey proved likely; however, they also learned that while uncommon on the Sword Coast, there were numerous places across Faerun and the Outer Planes where they dwelled. Aldanon and Sand looked for any references to the twisted spider-like presence, but found nothing. Further research into the Red Wizards and their activities also provided nothing. Father Ivarr and the few that were still looking also found very few leads. The dwarven high priest suggested that the winged woman was a half celestial, and agreed that if she were a servant of Ilmater, then it was highly unlikely the Red Wizard or any of the others were engaged in anything evil. He seemed more interested in the fact that the dream had been utterly silent.

"It's very interesting," Father Ivarr had stated, "That the planetar neither spoke, nor were any sounds heard in the dream. Tyr, it seems, like the other gods that have been contacted, remains utterly silent on this issue. It is one thing for one deity to choose not to share anything, but when none of them seem to wish to impart even a fragment of their divine wisdom, it is not only odd, but very troubling. The fact that He even sent the dream to you, Casavir, is a great honor."

Nevalle, for his part, did not directly interfere with the efforts being made to locate her, only that they be done in spare time, when they were not on duty. He could not directly order the temple to cease, but he had assigned a number of new duties to them and other keep personnel that kept them too busy to spend much effort on the search. Though Casavir had told him of the dream, and his belief that the Captain was alive somewhere and in danger, Nevalle dismissed it. They were not, he had told the paladin, going to waste time and people on a wild goose hunt based on a mere dream.

Nevalle's casual dismissal of his vision did not surprise Casavir. He knew that Nasher had no intention of doing anything but staying the present course. The Captain's induction and elevation in the nobility was little more than an act of convenience and pragmatism, one that could be undone once the threat was over. Her disappearance was most likely considered a blessing, as it made removing her from command easier. While she had expressed a desire to leave the keep after the war, she had no intention of simply leaving it to anyone. She wanted to choose her own successor, and Nasher did not trust her to choose one that would be more compliant and amenable to his views and desires.

Thus, it came as no surprise when Nevalle, in early Ches, finally announced that a replacement had been found, and the keep would have it's new commander within a tenday. The news generated quite a stir amongst the people, many of whom were angered or disappointed. Many had not expected her to be replaced so quickly, and held hopes that she would return before someone else would take over.

Casavir, though not surprised, felt disgust as he left the courtyard after the announcement. The new commander, a Lord Brekin, would more than likely prohibit keep personnel from continuing the search, even in their spare time. What little of the man Casavir did know was not particularly inspiring. The son of one of Neverwinter's lesser noble families, he had been knighted mostly out of a favor for his family. Though he had been an officer in the city's forces for twenty years, he had not served in the Luskan War, avoiding it by taking a trip to Waterdeep to "consult" tactical experts there. He was not a man to inspire loyalty or even admiration from subordinates, and like many of his peers, cared little about the opinions of those beneath him.

He returned to his quarters without speaking to anyone on the way. Though he knew his own decision was final and non-negotiable, he did not wish to speak to anyone until he had formalized it. He was also feeling ill of temper, and did not wish to let his own mood further darken the general feeling of disappointment that filled the keep. Pulling a piece of paper out of the drawer on his writing desk, he took the quill from the pewter inkpot and began writing. The tension he was feeling transferred itself through the quill tip to the sheet before him, and he had to consciously ease off the pressure lest he tear gashes in the paper. Once, he had left Neverwinter's service without warning or notice, and many in the city felt contempt at what they saw a rash betrayal of his oaths. Some even wanted to hunt him down and have him tried for desertion and dereliction of duty.

This time, it would be different. He was not leaving Neverwinter, for he had sworn no oath to the city or it's lord, but the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep. Now that she was no longer in that position, there was nothing to keep him here. Lord Nasher and his elite might have given up on her, but Casavir would not. He made this clear, as well as a long list of other objections, as he continued to write out his extensive resignation.


	7. Blackened

"_Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there."_

_Eric Hoffer_

_**20th of Alturiak, 1384 **_

He rapped the empty tankard impatiently against the battered, splintered surface of the old ash table. The tired looking serving wench did her best to pretend not to notice, and only after he sharply cleared his throat did she roll her eyes and nod curtly, snatching it from his hand to go refill it. When she returned, she slammed the full tankard in front of him, sloshing ale on the table, some of it splashing on his leathers. Crossing her arms, she stared expectantly at him. He returned her cool stare for several moments before finally flipping her a copper and waving her off. She snorted, and gave him an obscene gesture before marching back to the bar. He lifted the tankard in mock toast to her before taking a deep draw of the bitter, vile tasting stuff.

_The service in here stinks as badly as the bed linens, _the ranger thought dryly. Not that he would have expected much more from some backwoods roadhouse that was a good day's walk from the nearest major highway. The ale, though flat and foul, was also cheap and strong, which made the slop that passed for food here palatable after several tankards. The severe vision and judgement warping properties of the oily, sable colored beer made the bored, worn out looking whores more palatable as well. Rathole or not, the roadhouse suited his basic needs for now, and in the end, that was all he really cared about.

He gave the bar room a quick scan, looking for any new faces or activity that might warrant closer scrutiny before returning to his beer. The roadhouse, whose name he hadn't even bothered to learn, catered mostly to miners, prospectors, logger men, and others who made their living from the woods and stone of the northern Sword Mountains. During the wintertime, those who had no families or business to attend to holed up here, waiting out the worst of the season with ale, women, and gambling. The air in the room was thick and humid with their reek: a combination of stale sweat, sour ale, and greasy food interlaced with the sharp odor of woodsmoke and the cloying stink of cheap perfume. The low murmur of monotone conversation in the room was frequently broken with the staccato clacking of dice against wood. Occasionally, someone whooped or cursed, and twice since he had stayed here, fights had broken out. A few punches thrown, a ceramic mug smashed against a forehead, a table and its contents knocked over, spilling all across the floor. The bartender, with his permanently bored expression, would simply scratch something on a sheet of paper, no doubt marking who broke what so they could be charged later, before going back to his main daily duty: staring blankly at the fire that burned in the room's hearth.

Satisfied that the faces in the room were the same weather beaten, grizzled faces he had seen every day for the past three days, and that no one seemed to be paying any attention to him, he swallowed another mouthful of ale and looked through the room's main window. The pearl grey sky continued to steadily drizzle snow on the surrounding landscape as a moderate wind whipped the finer powder up from the ground and flung it around in random dervishes. The snow storm showed no signs of letting up, and he was glad he had decided to bunk up here and ride the worst of it out in relative comfort. Though more than capable of finding shelter and surviving a mountain blizzard in the wilds, the prospect of doing so with the aid of strong booze and rented women proved far more preferable, even if the fare was pretty substandard. It sure as hell beat staying in some cave, huddled over a struggling fire with only the sound of the shrieking wind and crackling of falling trees to keep him company.

He felt a warm, shifting mass against his legs, and a deep snort intruded in his thoughts. _Am I not decent company? _The mind-voice of the wolf at his feet broke in, indignant. He reached under the table and scratched the wolf between the ears. _You're the best kind of company, _he replied, then added: _That is, when you're not pushing me out of my bedroll or blowing wolf-snot all over me. _Karnwyr snorted, spraying Bishop's hand with said wolf-snot before curling back up to sleep. The ranger wiped his hand on the underside of the table. _Thanks, flea farm, _he shot back at the wolf as he drained the rest of the ale from his tankard and signalled to the bar wench for another. She did a good job of pretending to ignore him until he flung another copper at her, the coin striking her well rounded rump. She stared daggers at him, but refilled his ale and picked the coin up off the floor.

Tormenting the staff had become a form of entertainment since he had arrived, one of the few things that gave him even a shadow of pleasure. The occasional skirmish between drunken gamblers provided further amusement, especially when it resulted in nasty injuries, but those were infrequent, and the fact that he had not participated in any of them made their enjoyment factor minimal. He kept hoping that some drunk would come and mouth off or stir the shit with him, but so far, no one so much as even looked his way, and Bishop had to content himself with annoying the hells out of the few people, such as the barmaid, who took any notice of him.

He gripped the handle of his tankard tightly. Over the past month, the desire for violence had filled most of his waking moments, a desire born from the need to replace the cold, black numbness that permeated his heart and soul with something else. Feeling. Any kind of feeling, even the dark thrill of savagely killing an enemy and abusing his corpse, was preferable to the blank that his daily existence had drifted into.

_But this is exactly what I wanted, _he thought blandly. _Freedom. Freedom from my past. From Duncan, from Neverwinter. From Luskan. Hells, freedom from feeling anything at all. I wanted "inner peace", and I got it. It's all mine now. And it only cost me her._

He thought back to that day in the Illefarn sanctum, as he stood waiting in the shadows with the Luskan bone-headed freak, Garius. The former Master of the Fifth Tower was droning on and on about the power and glories that awaited a servant of the King of Shadows, but the ranger was paying little attention. He had not joined the shadow forces for the sake of the pipe dreams Garius thought to tempt him with. If anything, as soon as his "job" was done, he planned on slipping away at the first available opportunity. He held no illusions on what happened to the servants of the Shadow King, and existing as a subservient shade or reaver held no appeal to him. Despite all of Garius' grand promises, only two things motivated the betrayal: to secure the freedom from his past he had craved for so long, and to punish _her_ for not accepting her own liberation when he offered it.

_I got one of the two, but not the one I wanted most. _The look in her eyes when they made that final and brief eye contact in the inner sanctum told him flaying her alive would have been an act of mercy compared to the inner flaying his treachery had inflicted on her. It was the last time he ever saw her, and that look in her eyes haunted him like a tortured banshee ever since. Far from giving him closure and release from his own demons, he had created yet another one to ride his back until the day he died.

The subtle splashing of ale in his tankard brought his attention back to the roadhouse. He looked down to find his hand, still gripped tightly on the handle of his tankard, was shaking. He slammed the ale down on the table, grinding his teeth in rage barely held in check. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to jump out of his seat and start smashing the faces of everyone in that stinking bar until he had laid waste to everyone and everything in it, or someone put his lights out for good. At that moment, he found both prospects equally tempting, and had Karnwyr's sudden shrill whimpering not pierced his mind's ear, he probably would have tested which option could be realized first.

His sudden anger dissipated into vague bitterness by the wolf's alarmed mind-cry, he picked up his ale and continued drinking it. Karnwyr, whose mind was linked to his own in a deep mental and emotional bond, had always been a calming influence on him, and after that day in the Vale, was perhaps the only thing that stood between him and another monumental mistake. Lately, his lupine companion had grown increasingly worried by the erratic mood swings that had become the norm for his ranger master, and made it a point to start acting up or crying out when the darker impulses were starting to show. Bishop reached under the table and stroked Karnwyr, mentally reassuring his friend that the storm, for the time being, had passed.

Finishing his ale in several aggressive gulps, he scorned himself for thinking about that day, for dwelling on _her. _A major motivation for taking shelter in the roadhouse was the cheap distractions that the hibernating wilderness did not offer. _She was just a wench, like any other, _he silently berated himself._ Sure, her company was far better than what I'm used to, and when she finally did let me in her bed, she didn't charge or try and chain me to it. But she was still just another wench. If she got hurt, it was her own damned fault. _

Examining his empty tankard, he debated whether or not to harass the barmaid for another. He had been sitting there since the morning, draining pint after pint, and the effects were starting to become noticeable. He looked out the window again, and saw that dusk was falling rapidly. The resident whores were most likely sitting in the lounge, making themselves available for the patrons, and he decided that getting first pick would be far better than sloshing around in the sloppy seconds of some lice-ridden miner. He could always come back down later if he wanted to get really drunk. He looked over at the barmaid, and smiled. _First things first. _

Whistling rudely, he slammed his tankard on the table until he caught her attention. She stormed over, her large bosom bouncing in time with the swishing of her skirts. "What now?" she snapped. "If it's another ale, you can get it your damned self, you tosspot."

"Actually, it wasn't another ale I'm interested in," he said, favoring her with his slyest grin. "You know, you look awfully tired after such a long day of work, and it just so happens, I happen to have a bed that would fit your just fine." He arched his brows suggestively and jingled his coin purse. "I could make it worth your while, you know."

Her expression changed from contempt to guarded interest. Eyeing the purse, she said, "Hmph. Depends exactly how worthwhile you plan on making it. I've had to put up with your shit all day, and I can barely stand serving you ale. Let alone serving you in other ways."

"Well, let's see." He made a show of looking her over, pretending to study her assets with great interest. "For a woman of your looks and apparent talent level..." He reached in his purse, and his grin changed to a cruel smirk. "A nice shiny half-copper. Payable after you swallow, of course."

She was deceptively quick; her palm connected with his stubbly jaw with a sharp crack before the rage even registered on her face. "To the hells with you!" She shrieked. "I wouldn't bed you for all the gold in these hills, you slimy ratfuck!" As she spun on her heel and stomped off, a barrage of harsh laughter and catcalls erupted across the room.

"Alright, you win!" The ranger called after her. "One whole copper, and that's my final offer!" She grabbed a plate and flung it at him, widely missing him, and another roar of laughter filled the room. He watched the infuriated and humiliated wench skulk behind the counter, her face radish red. A feeling of grim, twisted satisfaction wormed its way through him. Smiling, he thought: _And now you reap the rewards of shitty service, you stupid bitch. _

With a slight stagger, he left the bar room through the garish red and violet door that led into the lounge. Four of the roadhouse's prostitutes were already in the cramped room, talking amongst themselves about one of their colleagues. They hushed as soon as he entered, and flashed the same tired, practiced smiles they gave every male that wandered in. Their faces were heavily painted into masks of cheap sensuality, and the air in the room was thick with their perfume. He heard the door swing open behind him, and the sound of Karnwyr's toenails tapping against the wooden floor followed.

_Distraction. I need a good distraction. _Casually, he looked them over. Though they were all reasonably attractive, none of them could be called beautiful, and he guessed that one was probably in her fourth decade of life. Still, they were the only women available for miles around, and extremely competent. That was all he cared about.

One in particular caught his attention. She was tall and leggy with a thick mane of blonde, wavy hair. Eyes like large blue saucers fluttered at him, and she leaned back to offer a better view of her lush curves. Her face was round and slightly cherubic, and dimples puckered her pleasantly chubby cheeks. As he studied her, he realized what interested him so much. Physically, the woman posing before him was the opposite in every way from the one he desired to forget. He reached in his coin pouch and handed her a few pieces of gold. Her face brightened and she tucked the money into a small purse strapped to her thigh.

"You'll do," Bishop said as he motioned towards the stairs.

**********************************************

_He trekked through the ruins, eager to get out as quickly as possible. It didn't matter who won; he had openly and brazenly betrayed both sides. In either case, the victor would mercilessly hunt him down and kill him slowly. Garius and his shadowy Lord would waste no time in capturing him and making certain he joined the shadow legions, whether he wanted to or not. And if they were defeated...he had never known anyone who could hold a grudge like she could. _

_He turned a corner into an atrium, and immediately he could smell the chill, crisp wind from the Vale. The exit was close. Beyond it, Karnwyr would be waiting, crouched in the dead grasses, waiting for him. As he broke into a run, eager to see the dull grey sky, he felt something cold, alien, and...empty brush his mind, leaving in its wake an idea that had not been there before. He stopped, uneasy at the intrusion, and wondered if the King of Shadows had won, and was now coming to claim him as well. _

_The idea grew stronger, and with it, the irrational urge to execute it. His urge to flee was replaced by the urge to stay a little longer and wait for whoever emerged victorious. He stopped and opened his pack, pulling out the several very nasty trap kits she had made for him. Yes, these will do, he thought. Every part of his instinct and mind told him to stop fucking around and get the Hells out of there. Puny little traps wouldn't do shit to the Shadow King, and if it was them who came out, the two rogues, one who had just learned how to vanish in plain sight, would have the traps undone before he could spot them. _

_The strange idea pushed itself harder. If they stop, you can fill them full of arrows, it insisted. Even your little demon wench has to step out of the safety of shadow sometime. You can save her for last. He grimaced at the idea, and shook his head. No, not her, he protested in return. I didn't kill her back there because I couldn't, and my resolve sure as fuck hasn't grown any stronger. The others, especially that righteous fuckwit paladin, no problem. Torture her? Yeah. But kill her? _

_The thoughts were jarred violently from his head as he felt the ground beneath him give way, and he went tumbling down a newly created incline. He could hear the sounds of cracking, crashing stone all around him, and realized with a fatalistic certainty that his delay had cost him. As he rolled over on his back, he saw an enormous slab of granite dislodge from the ceiling. It fell in slow motion, like a feather drifting through a breeze, and he knew in the blink of an eye it would reduce him to pulp. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. After all this, after everything he had been through, the people he had killed, the people he had turned against...a big chunk of rock would avenge everyone... _

_He expected the velvet cloak of oblivion to embrace him, to finally free him, but instead, he felt something cold and damp biting sharply into his flesh. Horrific screams, moans, curses, and cries pierced his ears, and a stench of a million corpses choked him. He shrieked as he felt himself being pulled and stretched beyond the limits a normal body could handle, but the sensation never stopped. At the same time, he felt an immense, infinite force crushing him, suffocating his agonized groans until he was certain he could not possibly scream any more. _

_I'm in Luskan, at the Prisoner's Carnival, he thought. That has to be it. They finally got me, and are using me for public entertainment. I'm being drawn and quartered, and a heavy slab has been laid on me. He tried to focus on the shouts and screams he heard, but his own anguish sent a thousand painful sparks through his thoughts, and he could feel parts of his mind and memory fade. Unfortunately, his pain did not, and when he finally managed to open his eyes, the grey, empty, blasted wastelands he saw stretching into infinity told him that wherever he was, he was not, after all, in Luskan. _

_He tried in vain to squirm free from whatever was holding him down, but to no avail. The more he wriggled, the more he felt the excruciating sting of what felt like millions of razor-sharp maws dripping venom into raw wounds. He looked around, trying to see what was causing the pain, and to his horror, he saw what seemed like an immense chain of bodies, interwoven and stacked high on either side of him, some buried under others, others cloaked by what looked like putrid mold. All of them were crying out for release, for mercy, for reprieve. Their pleas were answered by stagnant, grey silence. _

_His suffering grew more intense as time seemed to pass. Days? Weeks? Months? He didn't know. He had forgotten how he had come to be here, or who had put him there. Or why. More and more memories seemed to slip his grasp and disappear, and his awareness grew dimmer. He expected the pain to diminish, but instead, it grew like the feather mold that was creeping up along him. The endless symphony of misery continued, but he refused to join it. He would not beg. Not now, not ever. He wanted to find out who did this so he could at least spit in their face. _

_He was not certain how long he had been where he was when something in the distance shimmered. Two figures emerged into the bleak expanse, and slowly advanced in his direction. As they grew closer, the screams that surrounded him suddenly hit a different pitch, one of excitement and anticipation. Pleas of mercy turned into shouts of triumph, praise, and hope. He felt the attention of everyone around him focused intently on the pair, and as they came close enough for him to see their faces, he could not contain his own shock and wonder. The taller figure, a blue man, he did not recognize, but the shorter of the pair, a female with two amber horns jutting from her hairline, he knew all too well. _

_He called out to her, his voice crackling like rotted parchment. She turned, and her eyes widened in recognition and horror. She dashed up to him, shaking her head in disbelief as she stared at him. Though there was no mistaking her, she looked different somehow, in a way that he found incredibly disturbing. Her lips were rapidly moving, yet he heard nothing but the dull hum of the voices around him. He felt his own mouth forming words of its own accord, but he did not know what he was saying, and had the impression someone else had borrowed his voice. The blue man with her studied them both with great curiosity, then began speaking to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off absently. Despite the pain he was in, he felt the cold pangs of anger and jealousy twist in his belly. _

_Her expression grew more confused, more worried. She reached out to touch him, but before her hand could make contact, his body convulsed with new agony. Recoiling as if struck by leaded whips, she covered her mouth, shaking her head in disbelieving terror. Suddenly he felt a massive presence, and heard the splintering of his bones as his vision went black. Something was gnawing at him, devouring him. She was fading from him as he felt himself sliding into the maw of something horrible. Panicked, he used ever last ounce of his strength to free his left arm and reached out in a last desperate hope of touching her once more before he was ripped asunder. His arm seemed to stretch into infinity as he clawed the nothingness. And then, he felt her once more. Nimble fingers gently unfolded his taloned grip, her touch bringing both ripping pain and pleasure, and for the first time, he heard her speak. "Bishop." Her voice filled the belly of the beast. "I'm coming back. Come the Hells or high water, I will return, and pity the fuckers, gods or mortal, who get in my way. Wait for me." He cried out to her, his words making no sense. "Don't...go...the crusade...futility..." He gasped, and shook the strange, alien words from his mouth, replacing them with ones of his own making. He called out her name once more as the belly of the beast consumed him... _

Bishop woke with deep gasp of thick, stale air. He lay still for a few moments, not daring to move or breathe, wondering what the hell had just happened to him. The intense agony he had suffered vanished, replaced by the dull thump of a headache and the feel of silken fingers aggressively fondling his loins. He looked down and saw a soft, delicate hand that was not his own, and reflexively, he snatched it by the wrist and twisted it. His harsh grasp elicited a squeal of annoyance from someone to his right, and her turned, seeing the face and nude form of the blonde whore he had taken to bed earlier.

"Hey, asshole!" she spat, her button cute nose wrinkling as she snatched her hand away. "What the hell is your problem?"

He sat up, and looked her over briefly. "You. Why are you still here?"

"Well, I _thought_ I might hang around and wait 'till you woke up again for some more playtime," she said, rubbing her wrist gingerly. "But you kept on sleeping and tossing in your sleep, and I thought I'd wake you nicely." She leaned towards him, the humid reek of her cheap scent choking him. Her voice became a purr. "You kept on mumbling something about tieflings. If that's what raises the maypole for you, for a few extra gold, I can go nick the horns and tail off that stuffed mountain goat Ebrin keeps as a trophy in the cellar and play succubus for you."

For a moment, he considered it. _For a few extra gold, I could have...her, one more time, _he thought, intrigued. The moment passed quickly, however, as he looked at the girl next to him. She was quite attractive, one of two whores in the place that he didn't require copious amounts of alcohol to take to bed. But it would never be the same; if anything, the idea seemed more like a revolting mockery. The idea of the golden haired cherub prancing about in goat horns in an attempt to imitate _her_ was obscene. It made his stomach turn. _Besides, I hired this wench to forget about thieving dark haired demon girls from the swamp in the first place._

"Just leave," he muttered after a minute. "You're done here for the night. If you're quick, you might even be able to squeeze one more drunken cock in. By this time, everyone here is probably so shitfaced you won't even have to wash first."

"Don't sound too excited," she retorted as she got off the bed and quickly gathered her scattered clothing. Walked over to the bedroom door and opened it, but stopped and turned around briefly. "And by the way, for being such an ornery prick, next time, you're paying double. Good night." She slammed the door behind her.

_In that case, I'll just bend over that good looking older redhead with the nice tits next time, _he told himself. _The older ones are better fucks anyway, and usually don't charge as much. They also complain less. _He reached over and grabbed a waterskin full of gin that he always kept on the night table next to the bed, and eagerly took several gulps before setting it back down. He waited for the sharp, evergreen liquor to work its magic before calling Karnwyr over to him. The wolf leapt on the bed and rested his grey, furry head on Bishop's bare lap, and Bishop began scratching between the wolf's ears.

Leaning back against his propped up pillows, he wondered about the horrific dream he had just had. Since the day he left the Vale, dreams of the sanctum, of Garius, of the shadows were common enough, and he had gotten used to it. It was always the same, a replay of his memories with minor, insignificant variations. He betrayed Garius and left the sanctum, stopping long enough to catch one last glimpse of her, the Captain, as he fled down the passageway. Finding his way out of the ruins, out into dank, dark mists of the Vale, meeting up with Karnwyr, the sudden violent shaking of the ground that knocked him to his feet, turning to see the ruins crumbling, and spotting figures frantically scurrying from an opening like ants through a crack in the pavement. That was how it happened. The King of Shadows was dead, he realized, and the victorious rats were swarming out of the sinking ship before they joined him. He knew it was time he left quickly, before they got it in their heads to start hunting him down.

Tonight, however, it took on a totally different twist, one he cared for even less than the normal reminders of that day his dreams normally turned out to be. The lingering sensations the dream had left with him had faded, replaced by a vague unease. _Maybe it's the ale in this shithole giving me nightmares, _he mused. He decided that he would stick to spirits for the duration of his stay. Those, at least, weren't distilled here.

One aspect of the dream stood out at that moment. When she had come, she had come with the blue man, and no one else. Her normal gang was conspicuously absent. Even the dipshit paladin, who had the irritating habit of always trailing her like a lovesick shadow, was absent. He did not recognize the man with her, who was, despite being relatively handsome, was the strangest person Bishop had ever seen. He remembered back when he was holed up at the Flagon, whenever Duncan had a disturbing dream, he would ask that ponce of a wizard, Sand, to discuss it. The elf believed that imagery in dreams had a great deal of meaning and significance, and would spend hours analysing minute details. Bishop would snort derisively and make faces at the pair as they babbled on about the deeper meaning of this and that. He personally thought it was a load of bullshit, and guessed that Sand was probably just milking a few coppers out of the drunk innkeeper.

Now he wondered. He couldn't remember a dream that had shaken him this much. The setting was like something out of the twisted pipe dreams of a psychotic lotus-head. Maybe the whore had slipped him something as he slept, in the hopes of doping him to the point of getting more money out of him. It had happened once before, in Luskan, when he was a young scout in the infantry. The cunt had taken everything he had as he slept, and he woke with only his trousers left. His squad leader had him whipped in front of the entire company for being so careless. She had taken his chain shirt and sword, which, his squad leader had informed him, were worth more than his useless hide.

He pushed the thought away and drank more gin. He doubted he had been drugged, and if he had been, he'd find out and make the angel-faced bitch pay. Whatever happened, he couldn't shake away the image of her standing before him with her mystery guest. Who or whatever he was, Bishop decided wasn't important at that moment. It was, after all, just a dream. It was her face that haunted him. Her pale green eyes boring into his own, full of a horrible awareness of something he couldn't fathom, were as vivid now in his mind as they had been in the dream. She had never looked at him, or anyone like that. Even as she prepared to face Garius and the King of Shadows, as he stole one last look, her face had settled into a deadly stillness that spoke of a cynical fatalism and single-minded lust for revenge. Her dream image, however...

Bishop forced the rest of the gin down his throat, and welcomed the sharp burn it brought. He hated himself at that moment, for allowing her to occupy his thoughts once again, but he couldn't stop it. He had driven him over the edge once, and now, even with at least a hundred miles between them, she was doing it again. In trying to kill what feelings he had developed towards her, he ended up only making everything worse. Tossing the empty waterskin to the floor, he cursed Duncan for saving his life, for keeping him at the Flagon, for sheltering a wayward niece that would end up turning his whole fucked up life on its head and driving him crazy in the process.

The full force of the gin hit him suddenly, and he relaxed a bit. He knew that before long he would pass out, and hopefully this time, his dreams would be empty. Yet even as the gin burned away in his mind, her voice, those words, from the dream lingered, whispering through his soul like the herald winds before a thunderstorm. _Wait for me, _she had said. Though he didn't understand why she wanted him to wait, those words stirred both heaven and hell within him, and he was grateful when he felt Karnwyr's tongue licking away the stinging wetness that was gathering in his eyes.

*****************************************************

Bishop switched to drinking whiskey and gin exclusively, and in the next two nights, no dreams of any sort disturbed his sleep. Convinced he had been the victim of bad ale, he thought no more of that night, and continued drinking and whoring for a few more days without incident. Eventually, however, the roadhouse began closing in on him, and the lure of the open woodlands and trails provided more temptation than cheap liquor and cheaper women, even if there was still a couple of feet of snow on the ground. The worst of the winter storm had passed, and snow alone never proved to be much of a hindrance to living wild before.

Karnwyr, of course, was elated. The morning Bishop announced their departure, the wolf's mood had brightened considerably, and he eagerly pulled the ranger's packs out of the corner in anticipation. Bishop was hunched over the rickety washstand, using the murky reflection in the water basin to shave by. He felt Karnwyr's wet nose nudging him in the ribs, and a warm, wet tongue soon followed.

_Why do you cut off face-fur? _The wolf's voice broke into his thoughts. _Silly thing to shed fur when it's still winter. You should leave it alone, will keep you warmer. _

Bishop smiled. _What? And have a place for your fleas to hide when you try and shake them off? Besides, face-fur gets annoying and itchy by itself. _

_My fleas would not hide in your face. They think wolf-hide much more tasty anyway. Your hide too old and tough. Makes their bellies hurt. _

Bishop dropped the razor in the bowl and ruffled the fur on Karnwyr's neck. _Oh, is that right? My hide is too old for them? I'll remember that, flea-farm. Especially when I make the first kill once we __leave this place. You and your fleas can find your own dinner. _

Karnwyr leapt onto his lap and started licking his face._ But I will make first kill, not you. I will share it, though, because you do such a bad job shaving face-fur. You left a lot, very scratchy! _

The wolf's elevated spirits rubbed off on Bishop, and he found his mood abnormally pleasant as he gathered his things and filled up his pack. He had his fill of booze and wenches, enough to keep him satisfied for a while. The freedom of the wilds was what he craved more than anything now. In his mind, he was already savoring the taste of wild game and the crisp, fresh smells of fir needles and frozen twigs. His heart raced at the prospect of hunting, of playing the predator/prey game once more. As he slung his pack over his shoulders, he found himself feeling alive and filled with renewed vigor.

He went downstairs into the bar room and dropped a few coins on the counter. The bartender, who was busy replacing an empty keg, nodded and set the keg down to collect the money. As the money was scraped off the counter into a leather bag, Bishop spotted a large, freshly opened jug of gin, and gave the barkeep a few more coins and an empty waterskin. The barkeep set the skin aside, and grabbed the empty keg, disappearing down the stairs to the cellar.

_Fine, I'll fucking wait, _he grumbled to himself. He did his customary scan of the room, and noticed a young man at the other end of the bar chatting to the barmaid. The wench was giggling away while the lad tried his best not to pay _too _much attention to the ample cleavage that was threatening to spill out from her corset. Bishop did not recognize him, but noticed a leather courier bag on the counter between the kid and the wench, and realized the kid was most likely the delivery boy the innkeeper hired to bring news, notices, and stories of the outside world.

He walked over and purposely pushed himself between the two, eliciting an annoyed grunt from the wench. The boy, whose pimpled, smooth face suggested he had not yet made the full acquaintance with manhood, looked as he was about to protest, but thought better of it, and looked away. A full tankard of ale sat in front of him, and Bishop guessed that if he tried to finish half of it, he would be on the floor before noon.

"Is there a problem?" the kid asked, trying to keep his voice level, but failing.

"None at all," Bishop replied, picking up the courier bag and opening it up. "Don't mind me. I just figured since you were so busy working your boyish charms on Miss Tits here, you wouldn't care if I had a look through the papers you brought, since you're obviously going to be busy for a while trying to coax her skirt up and over her head, and I'd like something to read while I'm waiting for numbnuts-behind-the-bar to get my road ration of gin." He felt a sharp whack on the back of his head, and shot the barmaid a nasty look before turning back to the courier. "Though personally, I think you're wasting time with this bitch. If she asks you for more than a half copper, tell her to fuck off. You can get better from one of the resident whores." She struck him again, but this time, he grinned.

"Um, well...." The lad looked around uncomfortably. "Uh..I guess, but don't take them far, because Ebrin will want them to hang up, and he hasn't paid me yet."

"Oh, don't worry, they will be safe with me," Bishop grinned snidely. "Trust me." He pulled the bundle of parchments out of bag and took them over to his usual corner, where he could read them in peace.

He flipped through the parchments, looking to see if there was anything of interest. The innkeeper hired the kid from a local village to act as a news courier during the wintertime, to keep the relatively remote roadhouse in touch with the outside world. Most of the parchments were notices about changes in laws, announcements of new ore finds and prospecting opportunities, calls for employment or people seeking it, and other matters of commerce related to mining, although there were other things as well, such as bits of news and the occasional non-mining related job offer. It was the latter that interested Bishop the most. There were always people who needed a guide and tracker to get them through the mountains in one piece and in the least amount of time. When he had left Crossroad Keep, he had taken his gear, but left most of his gold behind, and found that after several days of debauchery at this little dump, his coin purse was close to empty.

Tossing each parchment aside that held no interest to him, the stack was thinning quickly when he came across a bounty notice. Normally, a bounty notice was of great interest to him, because often, bounty hunters who were not very wood-wise would hire on trackers to help locate the mark, usually splitting a good portion of the reward money. He had gone on enough bounty hunts and had made decent money from them. This one, however, caught his attention because of the name on it: his own.

**For All Whom It May Be of Interest, **

**By Decree Of Lord Nasher Alagondar,**

**Wanted, Be He Dead or Alive, **

**The Hunter and Tracker Known By the Name of Bishop **

**For the Crimes of High Treason and Accomplice To Multiple Murders **

**A Reward of 10,000 Pieces of Gold Will Be Given For His Capture, 5,000 for a Corpse **

**Known to Travel Through the Wilds of Luskan and Neverwinter With a Grey Wolf **

**Caution is Advised, Known to Be Violent and Dangerous **

He stopped reading at that point and drew a deep breath. _So, the chase begins. I knew that they would probably come looking for me eventually... but ten thousand gold? Ol' Baldy wants my ass a lot more than I thought. _The reward amount worried him. With that amount of money on the table, every bounty hunter from Waterdeep to Icewind Dale would be combing every inch of Luskan and Neverwinter territory with the hopes of tracking him down. He felt he knew why the reward was doubled for his return alive. _Neverwinterians love their big showy trials, Nasher most of all. _Despite the concerns of the large reward attracting hordes of hunters, he couldn't help feel a flicker of flattered pride. _Ten thousand gold for scruffy ol me? I'm touched. _

His eyes scrolled over the top part of the bounty notice again, taking note of every word. He lingered at the line that held the formal charges. Treason and Mass Murder. The treason came as no surprise, but the murder made his stomach tighten. They could only be talking about Red Fallows Watch. Closing his eyes, he cursed helplessly. All those years on Duncan's leash, waiting for the debt to be called in, in the futile hope that dirty skeleton he kept in his closet would turn to dust, wasted. He might as well have left the _Sunken Flagon _and took his chances. The real bitch of it all, was that Red Fallows Watch would have remained a secret had he not opened his mouth before Garius, the Captain, and her crew. All that time, believing that Duncan had blabbed to her the nature of his debt, only to find out that she was utterly clueless until that point, believing the "debt" was simply an overly large bar tab. He shook his head in disbelief. For that, he had no one but himself to blame.

His thoughts turned darker. _That cunt. That dirty little cunt. So, as soon as she returned to that keep she claimed to dislike so much, she blabbed to the Greycloaks about my dirty little secret. Probably even told that fluffy queer-boy Nevalle every detail like a good little hound. I deluded myself, thinking that little bitch would simply fade off into the shadows after the battle, leaving the keep and life as Nasher's pet tiefling behind. Treacherous, vindictive little swamp bitch! You fucking little whore, I wish now I had "waited for you". So I could drag you off into the Mere and kill you very slowly. _

Bishop felt the black, twisted rage swell within, and he heard the quiet shriek of his teeth grinding. The bar room was turning a dull, ugly shade of red in his vision. She betrayed him as surely as he had betrayed her. When he had left the Vale, he had convinced himself that, if she survived, she would wouldn't be returning to Crossroad Keep. She had told him, told all of them, that she had no intention of remaining a "Knight Captain". The keep, the title, were forced on her. She had one ambition: revenge on the King of Shadows for destroying her whole life. Everything else was of no consequence. Or so she said.

_I should have known better. Despite her protests, how could I not? The temptation of wealth, fame, glory, and status to some backwoods swamp hick turned out to be more than she could resist. _That had to be it. What other motivation would drive the capricious little demon bitch? Hell, she would only need a little motivation. That fuck face of a paladin would probably even provide further encouragement, droning on about honor, duty, and a bunch of other bullshit that made holy warriors' cocks hard just thinking about.

Bishop snarled as something even more disturbing entered his train of thought. _Maybe that's it. Maybe the paladin put her up to this. She kept him on a tight leash in the sanctum, but who knows what happened after. He wanted her, that I know. What better way to worm his way into her bed than to not only to make sure I was out of her life for good, but convince her to become a loyal hound of Neverwinter, thus putting her forever beyond my reach? He probably used his saintly charms to seduce her. Hells, he could be back at the keep, porking her in her bed right now, in the same bed that we had...she's probably got her legs wrapped around his back, her lips crying out his name... _

His fist came down violently on the table, scattering parchment everywhere and attracting the attention of the whole taproom. A dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on him in annoyed curiosity, but he didn't care. The thought that the paladin and her were together in the keep, setting up bounties on him by day, and fucking like rabbits in heat by night, made him sick with brutal rage. _Oh, you __whore, you dirty little whore. You would fuck the paladin, wouldn't you? Revenge. You know I would never be able to handle you with the paladin, regardless of what happened between us. You slut, you will regret it, I swear. The walls of that precious keep of yours won't keep you safe from me. I'll hunt you down, I'll drag you from the safety of his righteous arms after I smash his skull in. I'll drag you off to the mere and throw acid all over that pretty face of yours. But not before I coat my dagger with alchemist fire and shove it up your twat. And I'll savor every scream, you treacherous whore, as you beg me to kill you. But I won't...not for days, at least. _

Bishop's face contorted into a sick, perverse grin as a parade of sadistic, horrific images of her naked, tortured body passed in front of his mind's eye. His expression must have conveyed his thoughts perfectly, because the serving wench at the bar was regarding him with wide eyed fear, and the pimple faced kid next to her took his courier bag and left the room hastily. He revelled in their fear; superimposing their terrified expressions on the mental images of the Captain that burned strongly in his mind. His smile grew wider, and the serving wench fled into the kitchen.

Karnwyr's wail broke into his thoughts, and he came out of his violent reverie abruptly. The wolf's howl was not just mental, but vocal, and Bishop blinked as a torrent of jumbled, horrified cries filled his mind.

_Noooooo! You think terrible things, will make you ill! Get you hurt! Please stop! It makes my head hurt! Terrible things, you think! Let's leave, quickly! _

_Karnwyr, _Bishop growled mentally, _Shut up, for once. The bitch is behind this, she has to be! She wants us to be hunted down and killed for her amusement, so she can mate with the paladin! _

_You do not know this. You only think this. Smelly fire-water you drink makes your head think things like this. It's no good. I want to leave. Let's hunt, think of other things, not painful things about she-goat that you once mated with. Maybe soon you find shining man and fight him and chase him away from goat-mate. _

The temptation to snap at Karnwyr was strong, but Bishop instead shook his head in frustration. The wolf, no matter how much he tried to explain, couldn't understand the complexities of his rage. Nonetheless, he refrained from taking his anger out on the one friend he always could trust, no matter what. Instead, he turned his attention back to the bounty notice, his fury damped only slightly, for Karnwyr's sake.

Reading the heading again, he felt some small relief that they were accusing him of being accomplice to murder, instead of doing the deed himself. In a way, it was true. He didn't kill anyone at Red Fallows Watch, only led the Luskans to the village and set the fires. His Luskan handlers had done the job for him when they realized he planned on killing them, and not the villagers. A small distinction in the eyes of the law, and if they ever caught him, one that would not keep him from the gallows. But perhaps, a distinction that might convince the hangman to tie the noose so it broke his neck when the trapdoor was released.

He read further on. The next paragraph consisted of a fairly detailed description of him, and he wondered why the wench had not listed any scars or markings that were located on more intimate parts of his body. It was the sort of thing she would do. Maybe the final battle with the King of Shadows ended up destroying her pleasantly twisted, often lusty sense of humor.

The next paragraph gave a more in-depth accounting of his crimes. He skimmed over that part and was about to wad up the notice and stuff it in his pack when something in that paragraph forced him to do a double take. He read is slower this time, and when he finished, the vicious anger he felt earlier drained from him like wine from a skin that had been punctured.

_**The charges against the accused stand as follows: On the morning of the 7th of Uktar in the year 1382, the ranger known as Bishop conspired with the forces of the Shadow King and sabotaged the defensive gates of Crossroad Keep, allowing hordes of undead servants of darkness within the walls, resulting in the deaths of many brave Greycloaks. Furthermore, he conspired with Garius of Luskan to wage the War of Shadows against Neverwinter, and was involved in the circumstances that led to the tragic deaths of Ammon Jerro, former court wizard of Neverwinter, and Lady A. Tandis, honorable Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep in the Vale of the Meredelain, as well as involvement in the massacre of a small village on the edge of the Mere of Dead Men... **_

For several minutes, Bishop's eyes never left the parchment, and two lines rolled over and over again before him:

"_**the tragic deaths of Ammon Jerro, former court wizard of Neverwinter, and Lady A. Tandis, honorable Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep,**_"

The tragic deaths...Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep...he looked at it once more, his thoughts and emotions churning like a storm blighted sea. _Get out of here, now. Don't think about it, you're a wanted man, just get the fuck out now. _Quietly, he folded up the paper and slipped it in his boot. Glancing over at the bar, he saw the barkeep preparing to fill his waterskin with gin, and decided that, as a man on the run from a possible multitude of bounty hunters, gin was the last thing he needed. Whistling for Karnwyr, he grabbed his weapons and gear and left the scattered pile of parchments, the newly filled waterskin, and the thick, humid stink of the roadhouse behind.

Bishop and Karnwyr trekked deeper into the mountain woodlands, but even the crisp, fresh air and scent of frosted evergreens did little to refresh him. Karnwyr remained quiet, though he could sense the wolf's deep distress, and it added to his own. He had to push away the chaotic jumble of thoughts that swarmed through his head, and fight off a touch of nausea, so he could focus on the task at hand: finding a safe, secluded spot to camp out in so he could figure out his next move. That was the most important thing right now: surviving the hunt. Everything else...

_She's dead... _He tried to clear the words from his mind, but they refused to leave. _Why am I even upset? I already tried to kill her once, and just this morning, I was fantasizing about several crude, painful ways to kill her. So what is the problem? She's dead, my problems are all over. I'm free and clear, free of the curse she was. It's cause for celebration, ain't it? If I wasn't on the run for my life, I'd drink a toast! _

_No, that's just it. I couldn't kill her in the sanctum, and I spent the morning dreaming of slowly killing her because I thought she betrayed me and blabbed about Red Fallows Watch. Because I was certain she was back at the keep fucking the paladin and plotting my demise. But she didn't, did she? Because it's pretty hard to blab about anything when you're a corpse, and unless the paladin dropped his standards and developed a taste for corpses, they sure as hell aren't screwing each other's brains out, are they? No, the wench is as dead as my mother, my brother, dead as Ember, just...dead. I thought she would have been one to escape, but she didn't...no...either the King of Shadows took her out in one final deathblow, or the roof caved in on her. Either way, she's fucking dead, and I'm getting blamed for something I wanted to do, but couldn't do. _

He forced his attention back to the matters at hand. He did not know how long the bounty on him had been out, or how far the news of it had spread, but decided to assume it had began the day he left the keep. All of his old haunts were out of the question, as were any future plans of joining up with his old smuggler associates. For the amount of gold Nasher was offering, any one of them would cheerfully turn him in, and smile while doing it. Trekking through either Neverwinter or Luskan wilderness would be risky as well, since it was reasonable to assume that both places might be crawling with hunters. Where could he go, then? Icewind Dale? The Silver Marches? Waterdeep, or further down the Sword Coast?

Or maybe stick with the devils he knew? Bounty hunters might comb the areas he was known to travel in, but he knew the Neverwinter-Luskan wilds better than most, and had a good chance of evading or even ambushing anyone who was looking for him. He could vanish easily from potential predators when he was in the woods, much like the Captain once could fade into shadow. And he wasn't alone...he looked over at Karnwyr, who was stopping every so often and sniffing cautiously at the air. Good ol' Karn...the sight of his faithful, loyal wolf friend filled him with hope and resolve.

_You and I...we've been through worse, ol boy, and we'll get through this as well. Don't need anyone or anything else. Just you and me, like old times. _

Karnwyr stopped and regarded Bishop knowingly. _Anyone who hunt you must come through my teeth and belly first. I will not let hunters taste your flesh before I taste theirs. _

_Don't worry, Karn. Anyone who comes for me will eat my arrows before you eat them. _

_Arrows don't taste very good. Maybe you remove them before I eat? _

Bishop grinned and scratched Karnwyr's ears. _Naturally. _

After many hours on the move, the sky began to darken as evening crept in, and Bishop decided to set up camp in a rocky alcove that provided both shelter from the winds and concealment from prying eyes. Karnwyr took off into the woods for a couple hours, and returned with a moderate sized hair in his mouth. The ranger skinned and cleaned the creature before setting it to roast over the dim campfire. They shared the hare along with some road rations in silence, and after finishing his meal, Karnwyr rested his head on Bishop's lap and fell asleep.

Bishop, however, was quite awake. He stared off into the darkened woods, and muttered a few syllables that invoked the natural power of the land, of the woods. His vision became sharper, and he used his enhanced sight to scan for any movement or suspicious shapes. Everything sounded, smelled, and looked normal, like alpine woodlands should be on a lonely winter's night. He felt a twinge of disappointment. He was almost hoping that he would encounter something or someone hostile. A fight, killing...that would focus his mind and distract him from the bitter, lonely regrets that were gnawing at him.

He longed for sleep, but it refused his call. Instead, his mind returned to thoughts of...her. He thought back to that day in the Vale, of the figures he saw emerging from the collapsing temple, and finally, it sunk in. She was not amongst them. She was still inside, either dead, or soon to be. She never made it out. After everything, after all that she had endured and survived, after finally slaying her arch enemy, she did not get to enjoy the fruits of her victory. Her body was probably buried under tons of rock, rotting away, as surely as Shandra Jerro's body lay buried under her grandfather's haven of horrors.

Dead. He felt his eyes grow damp, but refused to believe it was from tears. It had to be the cold, the wind. Snarling, he said, "You bitch. You stupid bitch. You got yourself killed. After everything, you ended up fucking dead. You should have ran. Ran away with me, ran from the keep, from the Mere. If you had listened to me, you'd still be alive. Was it worth it, you crazy, obsessive little wench?"

The quiet, lonely night was closing in on him, and in defiance of the silence, of the strange sadness that was filling him, he threw his head back and howled in rage and despair. Karnwyr, who was startled out of his sleep, looked up at his human companion in sympathy, and after a moment, joined in the mournful howling.


	8. For Whom the Bell Tolls

"_He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. _  
_**Friedrich Nietzsche** _  
_Close your eyes, look deep in your soul, _ _Step outside yourself, and let your mind go, _ _Frozen eyes stare deep in your mind as you die. _  
_Close your eyes and forget your name, _ _Step outside yourself, and let your thoughts drain, _ _As you go insane, go insane! _  
_**Slayer - "Seasons in the Abyss"**_

_**19th of Mirtul, 1384 **_

The feet of men and horses kicked up a fine dust in the streets, which became a brownish haze in the warm afternoon sun that bore down on the town of Triboar, and Faithless cursed and spat out a mouthful of the irritating grit she accidentally inhaled. She was standing in front of the _Drunken Kobold Inn, _her lodging for the past two days, making the last minute preparations to her mare before setting out once again. A couple of horse flies buzzed constantly near her head, but she ignored them, focusing instead on getting the mare ready so that she could leave town before sunset.

After Faithless finished tending to the mare, she returned to her room in the inn to finish packing and gathering her things. She had acquired an assortment of things in Rashemen, many of which were redundant in their usefulness, and she had spent two days in Yartar selling a lot of it off, using that money to purchase various supplies she knew she would need for the journey ahead. Potions and healer's kits, traps and trap making supplies, and plenty of poisons. She had even organized everything neatly into her three bags of holding, a concept normally alien to her, as organizing _anything _had always seemed such a waste of time. _Not anymore. Things have changed, haven't they? _She thought.

The last thing she slipped in her pack was a scroll case that was filled with maps, notes, and knowledge of Luskan, both the city and the surrounding territory. While Yartar was a full, bustling market of goods and sundries, Triboar, with it's large resident population of trackers and guides, was a bazaar of information and lore of the northern lands. She had paid handsomely for not just maps, but detailed information on the Luskan forces' patrols: meeting points, common patrol grounds, habits, make up of patrolling units, and various other bit of intelligence that would prove necessary and useful once she slipped into Luskan lands.

She wore her original armor, the set that had been created and enchanted by now dead companions, the gear that she had fought the King of Shadows in. She stuffed it all down in a magic bag in Rashemen when she realized her thin leathers and eelskin boots did not accommodate the cold, harsh Rashemi winters. Safiya had created a new set of powerfully enchanted leathers, boots, and other items, and Faithless had forgotten about her old gear until now. The , dusky black leathers, though not as powerful as the destroyed set she had dumped back in the bathhouse in Everlund, were still formidable enough, and wearing them once again, gave her the sense of slipping into a paradox of prelude and prologue in the same breath, as if an intangible circle had finally been closed.

_A circle? No, _she thought with dark amusement as she attached the pack to her harness. _More like a spiral that I am looking down at. A circle keeps repeating itself over and over again, but a spiral merely mimics and mocks the whole fucking cycle as it draws you endlessly nowhere. _  
_Nowhere? Is that where we are going? _The Shattered Host's multitude of voices asked slyly. _Hmm...sounds about right. Your "crusade", just like Akachi's, and for that matter, all crusades, end up the same. _

Faithless smiled coldly as she checked her weapons for ease of movement. The Host bombarded her with their mockery far less since that night in _The Calling Horns, _and even then, their tirades and tantrums had lost much of their vitriol. What had once been a head-splitting roar of disconnected and conflicting thought-voices now seemed more like annoying background noise, not unlike the irritating buzzing of the horse flies that harassed her earlier. An irritating buzzing that could be ignored and relegated to insignificance, provided one had the proper focus to do so.  
_Indeed. _The Voice of Terrible Purpose's cool, passionless presence began filling the void that had been created by the sulking, retreating host. _All that you have left is me, and there is no room for anything else. _Faithless felt the Shattered Host cringe, and as they retreated further into the edges of her mind, she felt slightly more numb. She savored the sensation.

_Lost your teeth now, have you? _Faithless shot back as she pulled her cloak over and checked her back mounted weapons again. The Sword of Gith, which was now mounted on her harness by a specialized brace, rested between her shoulder blades, it's hilt protruding slightly above her left shoulder. She reached up and caressed the cool, silken hilt with her fingertips, and despite the lightness of her touch, she could feel the sword's resolve and _purpose _as strongly as her own. She allowed the blade to slip back into its resting position with a heavy sigh. Taking one more look around the room to make sure that nothing was left behind, she headed downstairs to settle accounts with the innkeeper, and left.

She rode through Triboar's gates and turned north onto the Long Road. Behind her, it wound south, where after many miles, it would terminate in Waterdeep, and the bulk of the merchant traffic was turning in that direction, the City of Splendors no doubt their final destination. Faithless had never been there, and she remembered a time when she was certain that curiosity and whim would eventually take her there. Now that curiosity and whim had died their lonely deaths, Waterdeep was little more than the wrong direction. Her eyes followed the road ahead of her, which ran as straight and unswerving as the path of an arrow in flight. That was the only direction that mattered now, and she urged the mare on.

She had ridden for only a half an hour when she noticed ahead a junction, where what looked to be a wide and newly laid road spurred off from the Long Road and ran west. Faithless frowned slightly, as she had studied her maps before leaving Triboar to plot the best and most discreet route into Luskan lands, and did not see any major road junctions before Longsaddle. She wondered if she had somehow had her sense of direction turned on its head and was either travelling in the wrong direction, or the wrong road all together. She glanced at the sun, which in the late afternoon, was two hands breadths over the Sword Mountains, and then looked back at the unknown side road. She was definitely going north. As she approached closer to the unknown road, she saw a sign at the corner of the junction that was covered in dried mud, enough to make it illegible. Curious, she dismounted and led the mare to the sign post, where she began chipping away at the dirt to see what was beneath. Mud crumbled away beneath her hands to reveal clumsy Thorass lettering that had been burned into the wood.

**This Way to Old Owl Well and Neverwinter **

Faithless took a step back and licked her lips, which she found had become suddenly dry. She now realized why it hadn't been marked on her map, which while a fairly good map, was also drawn up five years ago, back when the well was an pissing hole for the orcs, and the road leading there was little more than an old disused trail that few merchants in their right mind would take. Long before Nasher, wanting a trade route to the interior that did not involve taking the long way through Waterdeep, sent a small army and a trusted lieutenant to retake the well. _And_, she thought, as a bitter taste crept into her mouth, _long before a misfit group of Greycloaks on assignment from the City Watch ended up doing the job for them. With the help of an obsessive, suicidal paladin, of course. _She swallowed a small lump forming in her throat.

_Don't go there, _she warned herself, and the brief memory faded away to be replaced by an odd, empty confusion. She wanted nothing more than to get back on her horse and ride fast until she arrived in Longsaddle, yet she found the desire to remain planted right where she was at equally compelling, and felt no conflict between the two urges. She followed the Old Owl Well Road with her eyes until it disappeared in the distance behind a hill, and continued following the road in her mind. Beyond the outpost that now guarded the well, the road continued on to Crossroad Keep. To the High Road, to Neverwinter, to the Sword Coast. _To home. _

The Shattered Host began to whisper incoherently, and she was ready to smack her head against the sign post, as their keening gibberish, even if muted and dulled, was the last thing she wanted to listen to right now. As she grabbed the post and prepared to do a little therapeutic ramming, a voice rose above the others, and while it was subtle and unassuming, it captured her full attention.

_Home? _It whispered dreamily. The pitch was soft and childlike, and Faithless realized that whatever it was, it was not part of the Shattered Host. _I...we...can go home now? It's over now, right? All you have to do is jump on the horse, and she'll take you there. That's all you really want, ain't it? Isn't it all you really ever wanted? Just to go home? _

Faithless frowned, unsure what to make of this new guest in her head. She glanced back at the Long Road. Traffic was thinning considerably as the day was approaching its end, but a couple of wagons did turn onto the road to Old Owl Well. Those travelling paid her little mind, as she still had the old cloth wrapped on her head to conceal her demonic heritage. The lack of attention was exactly what she had hoped for, and decided she would ignore the new voice to avoid accidentally conversing out loud, which would certainly draw unwanted eyes and ears to her. _Piss off, _she growled mentally. Yet the childish voice persisted, undeterred.

_Look! See all the merchants? They know the way. Just follow them! Up and over the mountains, and then there you are. Back on the Sword Coast. The Keep, West Harbor, Neverwinter...they are all still there. You don't need to go to Luskan. You don't belong there, never had. Forget this stupid idea and just go home and take a nice long nap and forget about it. _

_Forget about it? _She mentally snapped back. _Forget about everything that has happened since the githyanki tried to raze West Harbor to the ground? Since the sanctum collapsed, since I woke in Okku's barrow? And my soul? Will it forget its imprisonment in the Wall? _

_Not to mention the fact that West Harbor is as dead as the Mere, _Terrible Purpose added, a trace of irritation creeping into the normally emotionless Voice. _Of course, even if it still stood, would you ever really return there? You couldn't wait to get the hells out when you were there. A small stinking swamp village of people who were as happy to see you leave as you were, and a "father" who never cared. That is where you should return? And the keep...all it ever was was a prison. And now it's a prison full of ghosts. Return there, and you slip Nasher's collar back on and chain yourself to a hell made of memories. _

The child within shifted, but remained defiant. _So? There's other things! We don't have to go back to the castle and that creepy witch Kana and all those boring people who say nice things when you're around but then say bad things about you when you can't hear. Maybe West Harbor is all gone, but what about all your friends? I bet they are still buried in that creepy temple, and stupid Nevalle or anyone else won't bother to go get them and make sure they are buried fine. Why don't __we go back there and bury them like they wanted? You promised, remember? You were gonna build the other tiefling in a nice, sparkly crypt. And the paladin wanted to lay in that elf temple. You can bring him flowers. He was really nice! Don't leave them all under that cold, moldy rock! _

Tying the mare to a small ash tree, Faithless then went and sat on a smooth boulder by the roadside. The loud creaking of wagon wheels and the sharp barks of train drivers goading their horses and oxen onward filled the air as many travellers and caravans were eager to make it to the foothills and set up camp before nightfall. The sun was already starting to dip behind the jagged peaks of the Sword mountains, and as she watched it descend, she realized she had never seen the mountains from the east. The slopes were rockier and drier on this side, compared to the thick, lush forests that covered the western slopes facing the sea. The rock faces, periodically dotted with small trees and scrub, looked darker and more foreboding from this side, and Faithless found herself surprised at how alien it all looked.

_Those are the same mountains that loom over the Mere, that were a background to my entire life, and I can't even recognize them now, _she mused. Looking slightly southward, she recognized the smoky peak of Mount Galardrym, its eternal fires still belching thin columns of greenish smoke from it's crest. _There. That's where we went to retrieve the Belt of Ironfist so those rock-headed dwarves would fight the King of Shadows instead of waiting in their caves for their own eventual doom. And we ended up killing a very nasty red dragon in the process. My first dragon kill. Hells, I even remember breaking out a bottle of dwarven brandy and dancing madly on top of the dragon's gigantic horde...the gnome fiddling away a celebration tune and the sister tiefling rolling around in gold coins like she was taking a bath. She wanted to go to sleep on top of it all in case it was just a dream! Even the paladin was pleased, because he found several Tyrran relics that could be returned to the temple. And the ranger, he stuffed handfuls of gold into his pack while mumbling about how he couldn't believe we had all survived. _

The sounds of her surroundings faded, and for a long moment, the voices within remained silent. She was close...so close to home. _Home. _During those months in Rashamen, home was a fading memory, one that she had thought less and less of as Akachi's shattered dreams and memories began displacing her own. She had held little hope of ever returning to the Sword Coast as the reality and magnitude of her situation became clear. Now the road stood before her, a road that would take her back to the place of dashed hopes and faded dreams. _But it's still home, and despite everything, it's the only one I've known. Maybe I can start all over again. It's not too late. _

_You see? _The child quipped in delight. _It's never too late, no way! We can call this whole stupid idea of yours off. Go home! There is nothing left to hurt you. The King of Shadows is gone, that eater of souls restored, and that stupid shard is out of your chest. Maybe not the keep or West Harbor, but there's lost of other places to go! Let's go back to Neverwinter, back to the Flagon, and visit Uncle Duncan! Remember him? He was so nice! I bet he will be happy to see you. He sure liked you! You can stay with him, and the two of you can sit together at the bar and drink up last seasons cider, and can forget the bad stuff and go out to the docks and throw that dumb sword into the harbor and forget everything and start fresh! _

The childish voice, so eager and innocent, grew more compelling, and Faithless wondered if it was indeed possible. To start anew, to lay the old demons and spirits of the past to rest. _After all, don't want to end up like Daghun, do I? That's why he lingered on in West Harbor like a festering wound, and I moved on. Start Fresh. Clean slate. I've had twenty winters of life behind me. Maybe if I'm lucky, another twenty or so ahead of me, if I play my cards right? Who knows what can happen then? _

Faithless stood up, deciding that returning home wasn't such a bad idea, when sharp, piercing bolts of pain shot through her skull and down her neck. She crumpled down to her knees and grasped both sides of her head, grimacing in agony as the Voice of Terrible Purpose, in all its cold, crystalline might, reverberated violently through her mind, down to her bones, and to the depths of her soul.

_What idiocy is this? _It demanded with all the biting harshness of a glacial wind. _Home? Such a place no longer exists, you silly bitch. And truly, it never did. Where will you go? Back to the Flagon? Back to the Uncle who saddled you with two "friends" that ended up betraying you? Oh yes, if you think Crossroad Keep is a boneyard of memories, then the Flagon is the fucking Fugue Plane in comparison. The memories there will annihilate you, and rather than being able to do something about it, you will waste away there in screaming torment as every sound, every battered table, every smell, every corner will hold his visage for you to see. _

To drive the point home, the Voice faded to be replaced by a dizzying array of memory images, of friends now dead sat around the room, but most of all, _him. _The ranger, sitting alone at his customary table, watching everything around him with a bored tension as he drank his ninth or tenth ale of the day. Another memory danced before her, this one of quiet moments in the early hours before dawn, where the two sat in the empty taproom alone, emptying the last of Duncan's kegs and trading jokes, stories, and sometimes, thought-provoking conversation. He kept turning to study her, his normal irritated expression replaced by one of curiosity, amusement, and, for brief flashes, longing. The mental image was far more painful to look at than the stabbing pains brought on by Terrible Purposes' rebuke.

_So, what was this about returning "home"? _The Voice continued in icy irritation. _There is no where you can run where the stench of your past will not tear you to pieces, and I do not think I will let you drink yourself to death, when so much remains undone. You can't run so far, that I will not find you. Cease this asinine sentimentality and these pipe dreams, and get your ass on the road. The only thing that will bring you resolution lies on the road to Luskan, not Neverwinter. _

The child, who had been startled to silence by the vicious intrusion, spoke up once more. _Why? He's gone. You can't bring him back, and even if you could, why? He was mean and didn't care about you anyway. He wanted to be gone. So let him go. He has some peace, isn't that enough? _

Faithless stood up, her body still shaking. _No. It was never about that. I knew then, and know now he is lost to me. I did not want him back in my company. Only to set him free for once and for all, and thus, set myself free. But he is not free, and peace and oblivion are not what the wall grants. The wall took my chance at freedom as well, and someone is going to pay. _She reached up and pulled the Sword of Gith from its brace. In the scarlet light of the fading sun, the blade shimmered like a river of eldritch blood. As she gripped the hilt, she felt the sword's own force wind through her body and mind. The sound of a thousand slivers of metal resonated through her soul. _I will not go back to the Flagon. That's where it started, and it was Duncan who ultimately combined our two roads together. No, I do not want see him, he helped start this mess. I shall follow the trail back to __Luskan, and make them pay for what they stole from me. _

_Now you see what needs to be done, _Terrible Purpose became calm and cold once again. _Now you see the pointless stupidity of your hopes and dreams. They must die once and for all, like everything else that ever meant something, because the only thing left that you can truly have is revenge. See that the foolish whimpering of little girls does not hinder you from attaining your prize! _

The presence of the child faded in one last whimper, and her thoughts hardened and became focused once more. Returning the Sword of Gith back to its brace, Faithless walked over and untied her horse. The Voice of Terrible Purpose filled her mind with a humming that made her feel oddly numb. She welcomed it as she jumped back into the saddle and turned the mare back northwards.

_I will not be delayed any further, _she thought with frigid resolve. The horse's hooves kicked up a thick cloud as she galloped off, covering the signpost to Old Owl Well in dust once again.

* * *

Only the barely perceptible rustle of an occasional blade of grass and slight flicker of shadow gave hint to her passing as Faithless moved with swift determination through the edge of the northern reaches of Neverwinter Wood. She paused occasionally, searching and listening for any signs of her quarry. According to her map, there were a series of trails and roads ahead that were frequently used by Luskan patrols and scouting parties in monitoring their southern borders. She hoped she would catch one today, but if not, she would wait patiently.

She soon reached her destination, but found it deserted, so she found a spot which provided her a good vantage point from which to observe and crouched in waiting. She had spent the past few days travelling through shadow to get here, and felt a twinge of disappointment that other than the trails themselves, no signs of human activity existed. Only the muted chatter and earthy smells of forest life were present. The midday sun had burnt away the morning's overcast, deepening shadows around her and increasing her area of concealment. Had anyone, even an extremely skilled ranger like her father, come upon the place where she now lurked, they would have had an extremely difficult time detecting anything amiss.

Hours passed, but nothing happened, and Faithless forced away the exhaustion that was subtly trying to lure her into much needed rest. Since she had left Longsaddle and taken old, abandoned roads and trails through the Crags into Luskan lands, she had rested little. Upon arriving in Longsaddle, she traded the mare to an old scholar in exchange for further knowledge and lore of Luskan. He was surprised at what he saw as a wondrous bargain: a gentle, sturdy, good tempered horse with full tack, in exchange for a few bits of information he had collected over the years. He had even updated her maps and notes, adding markers showing more places of interest and sharing even more secrets of Luskan. He had spent a couple years in the city proper as a scribe for the docksmaster, and shared a few insights that Faithless was certain might come in useful later.

She had watched as the old man, who said he was returning home to Candlekeep, led the mare to the stables of the inn he was staying at. She had already decided long before she arrived, that she was going have to be rid of the mare. While a quicker method of travel on open road and grasslands, the horse would have difficulty making haste through the Crags, where tribes of giants, gnolls, goblins, and orcs roamed freely. And even once past the cold, dangerous hill and mountain range, her intentions and plans within Luskan territories required absolute stealth and non detection, something impossible on horseback. Though she refused to allow herself to feel any sadness on parting ways with the steed, she was pleased that the beast, who she had mercilessly driven since leaving _The Calling Horns, _was more than likely going on to a more calm, leisurely existence as the humble mount of a scholar.

Being rid of the steed freed her to return to walking in shadow and disappearing from any prying eyes, but it also meant that travel would now be slower, and she made up for it by only resting in two hour snatches. She never even set up camp, choosing to wrap her cloak tight and sleep directly on the ground. She ate little, subsisting instead off a combination of road rations, easily identifiable food plants, and, when she came upon the opportunity, stealing from the stores of a farmstead. She occasionally would come upon some types of plant, which she knew from past adventures and knowledge shared by those she once knew, that acted as stimulants and appetite suppressants, and made liberal use of them. Even now, as she watched her surroundings with quiet intensity, she took some neversleep seeds from her pouch and chewed them, ignoring the urge to wince at the bitter, metallic flavor they contained.

The day began to wane, and Faithless began to think it unlikely than any patrols would show up today. The Luskans could be erratic in their timing, she had been told, and generally, encountering them was often a hit and miss affair. She had chosen this spot for several reasons: It was the closest to the route she had taken out of the Crags, its location near the woods provided ample concealment for observation and planning, and the patrols that came here were generally light and seldom consisting of more than six men. The last was the most important, however. She wanted to observe and gauge the Luskans, testing their ability and prowess, before venturing deeper into their lands. While she had collected much information on them, she knew from her own past adventures that it was better to trust direct and first hand experience than rely on and make plans based on the the exploits of others.

Stepping out of the shadows, she looked around for a good place to rest undetected. Luskans, being mostly human, would unlikely travel at night when they could not see well, unless they were accompanied by mages or clerics who could cast spells or create charms to do so. _Perhaps, tonight, I will catch up on some sleep, _she thought, though she wondered, since consuming a lot of neversleep, if rest would even be possible. She looked back at the trail, and an idea occurred to her. _Of course. I should have thought of that before. I will set up some traps anyway. It will give me something to do, and provide an extra surprise for when the fuckers do show up. _

She set her pack down and began to go through it when she heard low, distant voices coming from beyond the wood. Quickly, she kicked her pack under the cover of a dense patch of fern and slipped back into the shadow. The voices, both male, grew closer, and soon, two figures appeared in the distance, heading straight on the trail that went past her position. As they neared the woods, she saw both men were armed with small crossbows and short swords and wore simple leather armor. The two men occasionally stopped to briefly look around, but soon, they were close enough that she could hear clearly what was being said.

"Can't believe da' bastard really wants to go all the way around da' woods," one of the men grumbled.

"How else we gonna get there without their dogs findin' us first, eh?" the other replied. He was the taller of the two, and even in the fading daylight, Faithless noticed a whip-like scar that bisected his face.

"Ne'erwinter dogs ain't no problem!" The shorter man exclaimed. "Ha'ent ya been payin' tention'? All da 'Cloaks be way down south, still a'scared of da Mere, or in da city tryin' to keep da peace wit' all da folks commin' back!"

"Ayuh. But you don't think that they ain't got lackeys up 'round Port Lllast and the Wood to make sure none of our boys go playin' 'round their yards?" The scarred man stopped next to a mound that was several yards from Faithless' hiding spot and pointed. "'Ere's a good place as any to camp. Got a good view around with some bush to hide behind if we need. We can start scoutin' out a good route on the 'morrow. Getting' late, it is." His shorter companion grunted in agreement and the two figures disappeared behind some bush that concealed some of the mound.

_Scouts, _Faithless thought, quietly slipping away from the wood's edge and advancing slowly towards the mound. The shadows were long and deep, but she still moved with great caution. She listened and watched, focusing her attention in the direction the two men had come, expecting the rest of their scouting party, but no one else came. _Not a proper patrol, then. _She returned her attention to the two men on the mound, who were starting a small fire behind the concealment of some low growing bramble. Several minutes later, they started talking again.

"Dis' bread be hard as a fuckin' rock!" She heard the shorter of the two complain. "Why don' I go an' see if I can kill us up somethin' dat don' taste like golem turds."

"Good idea," Scar-face replied. "Ya better hurry, tho' cuz you be lucky to be havin another half an hour good light. You get yourself lost, and I aint a'commin to find you." She heard a snort, and then footsteps moving in her general direction. The shorter man came into view and passed her position by a few feet. He gave no indication that he sensed anything out of the ordinary, and she watched him head back towards the woods. She remembered leaving her pack under a cluster of ferns, and hoped that the man did not find it.

He returned an hour later, not long after the sun had totally set, carrying a limp form in his left hand, holding it by the tail. She switched to darkvision, and saw what it was that he had killed: a skunk. Slightly wincing, she hoped the idiot knew enough to carefully remove the stink-glands near the creature's tail before skinning and cooking it, or else she might spend the night retching from the stench that would cloud the area if he accidentally ruptured them instead. _You better not end up dousing the area in skunk-stink, Luskan, or your death is going to be long and gruesome. _A few minutes later, the man joined his companion, and she heard him discussing the removal of the glands while the other helped. She stifled a sigh of relief.

A half hour later she heard the sounds of eating, and their earlier conversation picked up from where it had been left off.

"So jes' when is Gurith 'spectin' us to meet up with the main body, anyway?" the shorter man asked after a brief, but loud bout of flatulence.

"Three days, I'm believin', "Scarface replied. "An' next time you wanna fart 'round me, do it downwind, will ya?"

"Ya, but only if ya promise not to breathe near me," the shorter one retorted. "So, three days, we report back, an' den we finally gets to go waste us a few Ne'erwinter villages?"

"You've the right of it, I'm thinkin. 'Bout damned time too, I say. The dogs been whipped and ripe for a raid for half a year, with all the troubles they seem to be havin' down 'round that big swamp of theirs." She heard a wet thunk a few feet away, and saw that one of them had just tossed the offal and waste from skunk over the side of the bramble. She moved carefully to her left, away from the animal's remains, afraid that the fools might accidentally hit her with the discarded scent glands.

"Pfeh! Usually not much loot, but dey gots lots of 'cruit fodder an' plenny o' wenches for da takin', an' it reminds 'em of who really rules da' North."  
"Ayuh. So, you have the coin so we can flip an' see who gets first watch an' who gets a few winks first?" Scarface asked. She heard the clanking of a few coins and a minute later, a quiet slap.

"Ha! Looks like ya done lost dat toss, Rugin!" The shorter man crowed.

"Looks like I have. Jes don' be a snorin' too loud, or I'll be shuttin' you up with my dagger."

Faithless waited until she heard muffled snoring before she decided to act. She stood up, still wrapped in shadow, and crept up the mound in total silence. The camp-site came into view, and she saw Scar-face/Rugin first sitting on a rock and looking bored. A few feet away an elongated lump covered in leathers and blankets snored without pause. Carefully, she circled around until she was behind Rugin.

_Kill the big one first, then torture the other and find out where the rest of his friends are, _she thought cooly.

Pulling her dagger from its sheath, she closed the distance between herself and Rugin. The tall, scarred scout was completely unaware of her presence, and he didn't even have enough time to register his surprise when her hand whipped out of the shadows and jerked his chin back violently, exposing his throat to the blinding slash of her dagger that followed. His hands reached up and clasped at his throat, but Faithless still held his head against her chest in a tight death grip as his life's breath and blood gurgled quietly away. Eventually, his arms fell limply to his side, and she released the corpse quietly, letting it crumple quietly into an inanimate heap.

Faithless turned her attention to the sleeping figure a few feet away. This one, she wanted alive, at least for the moment. She picked up the dead scout's cross bow and walked over to to the sleeper, carefully pulling his blankets away and retrieved the short sword that was still sheathed in his belt. He was laying on his back, his legs sprawled and open, and she smiled widely. _You are making this too easy, fool, _chuckled inwardly. With the same blinding speed and violence she dispatched the other man, she drove her foot in the sleeping man's crotch with a sickening thud, then stepped back and levelled the crossbow at his head.

The sleeper woke quicker than she had ever seen anyone do so in her life. He let out a high pitched, breathy wail as he sat up, one hand going to his loins, the other grasping at a weapon that was no longer there. The twisted, agonized grimace that was his face changed to wide-eyed shock and fear as he looked up to see the loaded crossbow aimed directly at him.

"Ahhhh! Beshaba's white tits!" he cried out, backing slightly away from Faithless. "What in da Nine Hells is this?"

"This," Faithless said, tapping the crossbow for emphasis while keeping her cold, predatory gaze fixed on the scout, "is a very quick way to the Nine Hells if you do not sit still and answer a few questions for me."

"An' who da fuck are ya?" he demanded, his still high-pitched voice trembling.

"You really aren't off to a good start, are you?" she replied coolly. "For someone whose life is one itchy finger twitch from ending, you sure aren't saying the right things to make me consider other alternatives." She made a show of tapping her finger on the crossbow's trigger guard, and he shook his head frantically.

"Ah, shit, don' kill me!" he pleaded. "Am a jes a scout, ya know! I'll tell anythin' ya wanna know, okay?"

"Good. Start talking, and I'll let you live. Where is the rest of your patrol?" she demanded.

"Eh? Da boys? Dunno. I swear, I dunno. We split off from 'em yesterday to look for a way 'round da woods."

"The Neverwinter Woods?"

"Yep, das right! Our 'tenant Gurith tol' us to find a sneaky way down to Ne'erwinter turf, so we don' a run into no 'Cloaks."

"I see. Then, if you don't know where they are now, how is Gurith supposed to know if you found anything?"

"Well, he says dat we 'spossed to meet up at Thenig's stan', where da other patrols are gonna meet up too in a few days."

"Meet up?" She frowned. "How many patrols are meeting up, exactly?"

The man shrugged helplessly. "Dunno. Two besides ours dat I know of. Maybe more 'ill show up, if da word gets out dat we are goin' on a raid."

"Where exactly is this 'Thenig's Stand?'" she pressed on.

"Huh? Ya ain' from around here, are ya?" he asked suspiciously. She glared angrily at him, and he held up his hands in the hopes of warding off her wrath. "Okay, okay, ain' my business, okay? Thenig's Stan' sits east of 'ere, near da Crags. 'Bout a couple hours north of the point where da' Crags an' da' woods meet. If you dunno, Rugin's got a map dat shows ya right where it's all at." As if thinking of his partner for the first time, the man looked over to his left, and saw the lifeless corpse a few feet away. Cringing, he looked back up at Faithless and motioned towards the dead man. "It's in his stuff. I swear!"

"I'm sure you do," she replied. A faint smile creased her lips. "You have been extremely helpful, and told me everything I need to know."

The man's expression became wide eyed and hopeful. "Ya said if I tell ya what ya wanna know, ya'll lemme go!"

"I certainly did," she agreed. She quickly jerked the trigger on the crossbow and watched as the scout's head exploded in a shower of blood, bone, and gore. She tossed the crossbow to the side as the the man's body flopped back. "But then again, I do have a habit of lying a lot."

She crouched down and began rummaging through the dead men's belongings until she came across a wooden scrollcase. It contained a crudely drawn map with the meeting point marked, as well as what looked like marching orders hastily scribbled. _Perfect, _she thought as she stuffed the case into her belt. She went through the rest of their belongings to see if there was anything of use, but other than a weak healing potion and a few coins, there was nothing of interest.

Kicking some dirt over the dying camp fire to extinguish it, she then left the mound with its two bodies and started heading slightly north-east. If the dead scout had told her the truth, it would be a couple days before the patrols met up there. If the map that took was fairly reliable in scale, she could arrive there tomorrow morning, giving her plenty of time to prepare a nice, warm welcome for "the boys".

Within the confines of her mind, she felt the Shattered Host stir. _Do you realize what you have just done? _The Voice of Conscience cried out above the whispers of the others. _You just killed a man, who was on his knees and begging for his life, killed him in cold blood! By the hells, you've never done that, even when you were at your worst! _

Faithless stopped, listening to what the Voice was telling her. She felt a sick sensation of cold surprise. _Very true. Even Lorne I made stand up before I gutted him, and technically, he wasn't even begging for his life. _

The whispers of the host grew louder, and suddenly, they all cried out in unison. _What in the hells are you becoming? _

_A crusader. _The Voice of Terrible Purpose cut through the Host like a knife, and the multitude of voices retreated from its presence. _For the first time in your life, you are finally on a road that was meant to be carved out by you, and you alone. Gods and men have used you for their own purposes and then discarded you, but in their haste, they forgot that beyond them, you possessed a terrible purpose of your own. _

_And just what purpose is that? _

The Voice of Terrible Purpose burst into laughter so cold and harsh that Faithless shivered as if a winter wind howled in her face and bit into her flesh. _DESTRUCTION! TOTAL ANNIHILATION! IT IS ALL YOU ARE, ALL YOU WERE EVER MEANT TO BE! _

The Voice fell silent, and Faithless stood motionless. She looked back at the mound where the two scouts lie dead. Quietly, she walked back into the woods and retrieved her pack. The Voice of Terrible Purpose's declaration still rang through her entire being, drowning out any other objections and feelings she might have had before. Before long, she felt neutral emptiness within had replaced everything.

"Naturally," she whispered numbly as she bounded off into the night.

* * *

Faithless stood in the shadow of a petrified alder as she watched the the road that wound through the gully and up to the rise where she stood waiting. The dry, relatively barren rocks and spurs of the Crags offered little concealment down along the road, so she perched herself within the irregular ring of Therig's Stand. The stone trees provided shadow, and the elevation gave her a better vantage point to watch everything going on below.

She had spent the whole of yesterday creating and laying a network of traps right at the bend where the road turned and lead up to the stone tree circle. The spot she had chosen for the ambush was perfect for the purpose, as it narrowed and was couched between two sheer rock faces. Once the traps went off, there would be no place for her quarry to run or hide, and her position gave her a clear path to pick off anyone who tried to escape with her short bow. She had rigged a few rocks on the ledge to come crashing down as well, if the need arose. The traps, which she had concealed well, were very difficult for even her to detect. She spared another glance about, checking to see if there was anything else that she could have missed, but much to her satisfaction, the site was as prepared as she could make it, and she turned her attention back to the gully, licking her lips in anticipation of the blood bath to come.

It was early afternoon when she saw the first signs of their approach. The sun was bright, and she had to squint, but she spotted a cloud of dust in the distance, where the entrance to the gully was. _Not even bothering to try and hide their approach, _she thought. _They must have great confidence in the security of this place. _She heard the tramping of their feet before she finally saw them as they rounded a bend that brought the road into her field of view once more. Their numbers were hard to gauge in the distance, but by the length and width of the dust cloud, she guessed that there were over a dozen. Possibly, two squads worth. She unslung her bow and drew an arrow from her quiver, ready to nock it when they came within range.

Ten minutes passed, and the first of their number appeared on the final approach, passing the first of her traps. She had laid them in a **V **configuration, which was a technique she had learned from her fellow fiendling rogue. Two lines of traps, each one's trigger wired to another, were set to converge on the main trigger trap, which once set off, would trigger all the others in a frenzy of destruction. Everyone, from the one who had triggered it to the person who was in range of the rearmost two traps, would be struck. It was an effective set-up for situations just like this, when one was significantly outnumbered by an enemy who was fairly organized, and in the past, it had proved a successful method of evening overwhelming odds. She had spaced each trap further apart than normal, as she was unsure exactly how the Luskans marched. Now, as more spilled into the bend, she was certain that all of them would be within the trap field, and she could not help smiling. It would get very messy, just like she hoped.

The man who was on point finally stepped on the well-concealed tripwire, and an innocuous _click _was all the warning the doomed patrol had. There was a second of a delay before suddenly, the bend in the road was engulfed in chaos. Explosions of fire, ice, and lightning erupted from both sides of the road, while putrid clouds of acid and poison hissed and spat. The noise echoed throughout the gully, with the screams and shouts of wounded and dying men further amplifying it. The sounds were so loud, a couple of the boulders she had rigged ended up being triggered, and the went crashing down into the chaos below.

Through clouds of smoke, steam, and acid, she could not see any targets well, so she waited a few moments for some of it to clear before she nocked her arrow and fired at the first moving target, a man who looked like a spellcaster of some sort. He staggered around, coughing and choking, his once sturdy robes now hanging in tatters. Faithless drew and let the arrow fly, calling on the respectable skills with the bow that she had learned from her father and former lover. The arrow struck the mage in the neck, and he collapsed to the ground without another sound. She continued firing at the remaining troops, who also staggered around in agony and confusion, offering no threat or resistance as she peppered them with arrows. When the last man lay dead, she set her bow down and examined her handiwork.

Faithless counted a total of nineteen bodies, though some of them, those closest the the incendiary traps when they went off, were so badly dismembered and scattered that she wasn't sure if she was over or underestimating the final count. A dark chill of exhilaration quaked through her, and she could not suppress a whoop of glee as she left the cover of the stone tree and skidded down the rock face to get a closer look. She wanted to see their faces up close, to savor their death-masks and further desecrate their corpses.

_A respectable start. _The Voice of Terrible Purpose mused. _A successful execution with fair amount of death. At least you didn't manage to fuck anything up. _

_What?! _Faithless was getting ready to smash the remainder of one of the Luskan's half ruined skull. _Respectable? That's all you have to say? Look at these shitrags! They're beyond dead! I think I've done more than a "fair" job of it. I've wasted the ratfucks good! _

_That you did. But it is not enough simply to lay waste to your enemy. Anyone can do that. No, you will not realize your true purpose, your reason for existing, until you have truly become it. _

Faithless snorted. _Whatever. _She turned her attention back to the dead around her, refusing to let the somber, passionless Voice spoil the moment. She wished bitterly that the ranger could have been brought back from pseudo oblivion if only for a moment, so she could show him what she had done. It would have brought a smile to his face, a face that seldom formed anything beyond a smirk or suspicious glare.

So absorbed was she in the carnage that she was more surprised than hurt when a sudden blast of magical force knocked her from her feet and sent her flying into the rock face. She had not even fully started to stand when a sudden rain of crossbow bolts and arrows rained down around her, striking rock and corpse alike. One arrow punched cleanly through her shoulder, while a bolt struck her thigh, sending blasts of blinding pain through her body as she collapsed on one knee. She stifled a shriek of pain as she rolled away from the rock face, frantically looking around for some form of cover. The same bend, however that had trapped her victims and made their slaughter easier to execute also gave her no place to run. It was then that she noticed that the sun's position was different, causing one of the stone trees above to cast an elongated shadow through the narrow gully. Despite the excruciating pain, her reflexes took over, and she rolled into the shadow, pulling it about her like a cloak and vanishing from view just as another rain of projectiles battered the place where she once was.

She heard a loud curse and looked towards the direction from where the assault came, and swore at herself under her breath for her careless stupidity. Another group of Luskans, most likely the "others" that the scout had told her about, had shown up not long after the first wave, and from what she could see, this group was much larger. She had gambled on the premise that if other patrols were going to join the first two, they would do so later, giving her plenty of time to re-stage another ambush and dispose of the victims of the first. Now she saw her error, and realized it would cost her dearly.

She remained frozen as more Luskans cautiously advanced into the bend, their weapons unsheathed. She was cornered, she knew, and began to wonder how long before she was discovered. She remembered she had been struck first by a magic spell, which meant they had another mage with them. Faithless cursed herself again through gritted teeth _Well, they ain't taking me alive. They may find me and kill me, but I will take as many with me to Wall of the Faithless as I can. _

_You will do no such thing! _Terrible Purpose rebuked her. _You will _not _give up, not after you have come so close! You stand, on the threshold of the crusade, ready to sheathe your sword before it has even tasted blood? _

Faithless wanted to laugh at the Voice, but was cut off by a sudden rush of pure energy through her spine. A metallic chiming filled every crevice of her mind and soul, resonating continually as it became louder. Before she could even think about it, her hand reached back and silently drew the Sword of Gith. The sword's tip had barely cleared her shoulder when suddenly, the blade burst to life in her hand. The force of the sword burst threw every part of her whole being, binding every part of her being to it as wave after wave of raw power show through her. The pain of bolt and arrow washed further away from her awareness as the whole of her mind, her soul, and her very existence merged in perfect unity with the blade.

The Voice of Terrible Purpose grew distant, but its crystalline clarity remained undiminished. _Now you awaken to your purpose. See that it is carried out. _

Faithless focused her attention back on the Luskans, who had called their mage to the front, no doubt to cast a spell to reveal her position. She felt no fear, no anticipation, only the desire that the mage should cast the spell successfully and purge the shadow briefly. She moved through the shadow undetected, positioning herself for maximum effect. The mage pulled something from his pouch and began chanting. As his casting came to a finish, the bend was washed in a wave of arcane light, and the shadows vaporized, leaving faithless fully exposed the eyes of all.  
The Sword of Gith fully awoke. The smooth, silken silver of the blade shifted, and became liquid, looking more like an argent river running through a rent in reality than a blade. A flash of sunlight reflected off its unearthly surface as Faithless raised to strike. The small, enclosed bend filled with a painful blue light, and as she brought the sword down on its first victim, the world around and within her were consumed by in the painful, azure radiance.

* * *

As sunset bled a carnelian glow into the gully, a cold wind began to whisper down from the Crags, replacing the deathly silence that had filled it since the afternoon. One could have been forgiven had they mistook the scene as a glimpse to a time before time began, if they did not look closer at a particular bend in the road, where a dark, reddish shadow would draw the eye and display the remains of what had been an orgy of murder hours before.

It was in this reddish shadow that Faithless lifted her head and began to stir, looking around at the scene before her, which resembled more a deep layer of the Abyss than it did the rocky foothills of a small mountain range. The earth and rock were painted red, with chunks of what might have once been living people splashed or stuck at various intervals. Blood was starting to coagulate on the ground, forming gelatinous scarlet pools in random patterns. Unidentifiable gore littered the road, and she struggled hard to find anything that resembled a humanoid body.

She looked down at her own body, and found it covered in blood and pieces of flesh. The smell of blood, bile, and entrails was overwhelming, but she breathed it in like sweet, costly incense. . A dark corner of her soul, perhaps the part of her that held the tanari'i within, howled in exhalation and triumph. She lifted the Sword of Gith, which lay quietly in her left hand, and held it up to see her reflection. Her face was splattered in wet, red streaks that occasionally showed the pale flesh beneath. She took her hand, which was completely soaked in blood, and rubbed her face until it was a singular, violent shade of red. Only her eyes, glittering with a fevered, mad light, broke the scarlet uniformity.

For the first time in her life, Faithless resembled something that had just crawled out of the blackest pits of the Abyss, rather than a human descendant of someone sired by such a beast. The thought neither excited nor repelled her as she savored every sight, smell, and sensation brought forth by the carnage before her. A pulse of all-consuming ecstasy engulfed her entire person, and inside, shrieking howl of pleasure and pain cut through it all like a knife.

_I've wielded the sword before, fully restored, yet this has never happened, _she thought flatly. _What is this? _

_This, shard bearer, _the Voice of Terrible Purpose stated, matter-of-factly, _is _your _terrible purpose. The sword awoke only when your crusade did. Only for Gith herself, has it done this before, and when she held it, the planes themselves quaked in her path. Akachi and Ammon Jerro never experienced the fully awakened blade, for they had no purpose of their own. Akachi wielded it in service to his master, while Jerro saw it as little more than a means to an end. But for Gith, and ultimately, you, the sword is so much more, and it knows this, because it was for terrible purpose that this blade was forged. _

Faithless stood up, barely understanding what the Voice had said, yet its words rang with some vague, alien truth. The only thing she knew for certain is that once she drew the blade to kill the Luskans, the barrier between sword and wielder vanished, and the two became something else entirely. The evidence lay at her feet and splattered around her. She hadn't just killed the Luskan patrols. She had _unmade _them.

The sense of ecstasy waned, and Faithless was left with hard, numb feeling within. Without another glance around, she began walking away from the site of the slaughter and towards the mouth of the gully, her boots squishing as she stepped through the carnage. The sword had shared some of its powers of restoration, healing the wounds from bolt and arrow, and she moved with only a hint of stiffness. By morning, she suspected that would be gone as well. For now, she accepted it blandly, her needs focusing more towards finding a source of water so she could wash all the blood off and then get a little bit of rest. Tomorrow, she would resume her crusade anew.

_Yes..._The Voice of Terrible Purpose whispered with a touch of approval. _The Crusade. Today Luskan, tomorrow...existence itself. _

Faithless did not even nod her agreement as she vanished once more into the shadows.


	9. The Four Horsemen

_Usual disclaimers, Obsidion owns just about everyone except a disappearing knight captain, blah blah blah, yada yada yada. _

_Yeah, it's fine, _

_We'll walk down the line, _

_Leave our rain, _

_A cold trade for warm sunshine, _

_You my friend, _

_I will defend, _

_And if we change, _

_Well, I love you anyway. _

_Every day something hits me all so cold, _

_You find me sitting by myself, no excuses that I know. _

"_**No Excuses"**__**, by Alice in Chains**_

**14 of Ches, 1384 **

The keep's fields were quiet, and only the occasional crunch of frosted earth or thin snow beneath his boots broke the silence as Casavir strode ponderously towards one of the hills the bordered the eastern edge of Crossroad Keep. His destination, an unremarkable crest where a plain oak bench sat surrounded by four unadorned wooden poles, loomed in the distance, and he quickened his pace to reach it faster.

_A service. _He shook his head in disbelief. The fields and farmsteads were empty; many of their inhabitants were currently in the keep attending a memorial service for the Captain in the keep's main hall. _A cursed memorial service, and she is not even dead. _Casavir climbed the hill quickly, eager to get far enough away from the keep's walls and the droning of funeral dirges within. Even worse would be the sound of Nevalle and a few others mouthing hollow, empty platitudes and benedictions about the Captain, despite making little secret of the loathing and contempt they held towards her. The brazen hypocrisy made his stomach turn.

Upon reaching the site, he sank heavily onto the bench with a sigh and stared blankly into the distance. The skies were lead grey, threatening to dump a day's worth of late winter sleet on the defenseless lands beneath them. Elanee had warned the farmers that spring would be late and violent this year, and from the looks of the fields and barns, no one was even beginning preparations for the spring ploughing that should be occurring in a tenday. _Perhaps the people went to mourn the loss of spring as well, _he thought blandly.

He glanced at the weather beaten poles, which, when the Captain was around, were usually topped with simple blue grey flags displaying a stylized cloud and wind gusts, in honor of Akadi, the Lady of the Winds. That the Captain would pay homage to such an obscure and exotic deity did not seem strange at all to him. Her mind had always been a strange and exotic thing to him; her spiritual beliefs even more so. This site, erected shortly after she was assigned the keep, was to her both a place of contemplation and escape from the slow noose that her position in the nobility had become. Though Casavir had not come for religious reasons, he found the simple shrine now provided him an escape and peace of his own.

His mind drifted back to the very day when she began the simple construction of the crude shrine. He had come looking for her, as Veedle had some questions regarding a work order for the keep's west wing, and no one had seen her that day within the walls. When he had finally located her, he originally thought she was constructing some sort of makeshift watchpost. After she explained exactly what she was doing, his curiosity grew.

"_I must admit, my lady, that I am unfamiliar with the nature and tenets of this faith", he admitted reluctantly as she shimmied up a newly erected ash pole to attach a strip of blue linen. _

"_What's not to understand? It's pretty simple: I worship the winds and the very spirit they encompass," she had called down to him. _

"_You...worship the winds?Why?" He wondered if this was another one of her attempts to bait him into a joke or prank. _

_Sliding back down, she landed quietly and plucked a few splinters from her leathers. "Why not? We all believe in something or someone, don't we?" she asked, looking unusually serious. "I mean, Neeshka sends her prayers to Lady Luck, Sand worships magic, and Grobnar believes in the Wendersnaven. You believe in justice and order, and even Bishop believes in the power of warm ale and cold steel. It just so happens that I find the air and the winds about me worthy of reverence." _

_Casavir admitted she had a point, though it was a rather odd one to him. In the time he had known her, she had been rather evasive when he queried her about her spiritual beliefs. Given her activities, and talents, he wondered if her reluctance to discuss such things was due to the worship of one of the darker deities usually associated with those engaged in the stealthy arts, such as Mask, Shar, or even Cyric. Now that he knew different, he felt a profound sense of relief tinged with puzzlement. He pressed her further. _

"_What exactly is it about the winds that invokes your sense of the spiritual, if you don't mind me asking?" he asked as she selected another pole, this one made of birch. Like the ash pole, its bottom was tapered and corkscrewed to make it easier to plant in the soft soil below. _

_She paused, cocking her head as she studied him. "Well, well, well, will ya get a load of this. The normally stoic and silent as the tomb paladin of Tyr is just bursting with questions and chat today. What gives? Bishop didn't spike your apple juice at breakfast, did he? I'll kick his ass, I swear." _

"_No, I assure you, my questions are my own, and the apple juice at breakfast was fine, if a bit more watered down than usual," he replied, a touch of amusement in his normally grave voice. "I am curious is all, my lady. I'm sure you can see, as a man whose life is centered on matters of faith and the spirit, why the spiritual beliefs of my companions is of interest to me." _

_Shrugging, she set the pole down and took a seat on an exposed stone. "All right. Since you asked nicely, I'll tell." She motioned towards a nearby mound of grass, and he took the seat she offered. "It's not that complex. The winds have always captivated me, being a rather rare thing in the Mere, where the air is pretty stagnant, damp, and stale. We got them on occasion, and most people complained because they might blow a few shingles off a roof or muss up some woman's hair. But I never did. When they came, I would seek out the best place for feeling their full force, such as on a rooftop, in a tree, or a field. Because I liked seeing the normal order of things getting tossed about and turned on its head. It was liberating and refreshing to experience." _

_He frowned. "What you are saying, is that you revel in the chaos and disorder the winds can bring?" _

"_You call it chaos and disorder, Casavir, I call it freedom and change." She reached into a small pack that lay nearby and pulled out a small, burlap bundle. It held slices of ham and cheese, part of which she offered to him. He took a few pieces, and she continued. "West Harbor was a boring, stagnant place,and just day to day life put me to sleep. Same damned people everyday doing the same things, same mind-numbingly dull gossip and inane chatter over things that were as fascinating to me as rotting logs. Only when the pot got stirred up did people suddenly cease being the living dead, and actually did something different." _

"_From what the Harbormen were saying about you, you were usually the one 'stirring the pot a bit'", he responded dryly, favoring her with a stern look. He remembered the one trip the group had made to her home village, and the surprising responses from her fellow villagers. "Well, to be honest, I wasn't surprised in the least to hear about her being brought up on charges, to tell you the truth," Georg Redfell had declared. "Well, the murder charge I knew was a pile of crap, but destruction of a village I could see, as a result of one of her stupid pranks. Always figured she end up in trouble no matter where she went. Helm knows she spent a good amount of time in the stockade here, for her 'youthful' antics..." _

"_Eh, well...." She looked away, her pale face reddening slightly. "Sure, I was West Harbor's least loved citizen, and I earned my bad reputation. But that isn't really what I'm getting at. Well, not quite. It was the change, the promise of something happening, and not knowing what. The winds blow, Casavir, but no one tells them to do so. They just do, and they do so with no particular goal in mind. So you never know what they will blow in, or, if they seize something they fancy, where it will blow to next. It doesn't matter either way to me which way they blow, only that they do, because no matter what, the end result is never what you expect. That, my friend, is what it means to be alive." _

_Casavir shook his head slowly. "I must disagree," he replied. "I find such an outlook careless and irresponsible. How can one live without direction and purpose? It's pure madness, I think. I believe one must strive to live with careful attention to ones thoughts and actions, and how they affect the world around you. Responsibility. All actions have consequences, and one must carefully weigh everything when making a choice, instead of acting on whim, because always, someone will be affected in some manner." _

"_Now I know why I stopped drinking at your table at the Flagon," she muttered. "I wasn't exactly trying to convert you, Casavir. You asked me something, I gave you the answer. Believe me, while I know it sure as the hells ain't your cup of cider, it is mine. I couldn't live like you any more than you could like I do. Regardless of how I think or you worship, I think we can agree to disagree on this one. As weird as you are to me, I have been trying my best to respect the way you go about things, and have even avoided engaging in stuff that might force you to smite me. I hope, at least, you can afford me the same courtesy, in this." _

"_In that, you need not worry," he replied solemnly. "I have always respected you, regardless of differences. Though I shall not hesitate to let you know when you are preparing to do something I find morally objectionable or questionable. And, while you have done things in the past that certainly have offended me, you have never committed anything so heinous that would force me to strike you down." _

"_That you know of," she said slyly, and then she burst out in rolling laughter, no doubt in response to the growing look of worry on his face. "Gods, Cas, lighten up! I'm just yanking your chain." She jumped up and brushed herself off. "And just so you know, I wouldn't respect you if you didn't criticize me when you felt the need to. Your beliefs I might not share, but I can respect them so long as you are willing to defend them. And that, my oh, so serious friend, you do better than anyone I've ever seen." She motioned to the remaining poles. "Gotta get these up before sundown. Want it all ready by then, so I can do my thing tomorrow morning as the sun rises." _

"_Do you need assistance?" he asked as he stood up. _

"_Nah, rather do this myself. You can stay if you want, though. The company would be welcome." _

"_Then you shall have it." He watched as she took the birch pole and started drilling it into the ground. "If I might ask you one more thing..." _

"_Go ahead. Shoot." She continued turning the pole, looking up occasionally to make sure it remained straight. _

"_What is it about structure and orderliness that seems to offend you so much?" he asked quietly. _

"_Offend?" She paused for a moment. "I don't think 'offend' is the right word. Wary would be a better description. I just find it hard to accept things that have to be shaped and maintained, bent to a certain grain, to keep on existing. Predictability is a euphemism for slow death and decay, I've always thought." She turned to him with a thoughtful look. "It's like a house or barn in the swamp." _

"_I'm not following." _

"_West Harbor is in the swamp. Swamps are damp. We build our houses of wood. Wood does not enjoy being damp, because it invites rot and moss to infect it and weaken it. It required a lot of hard work to keep our homes sturdy, so the first good rain didn't collapse the roofs on our heads. It was tedious, and if you let it go to long, there was a point where it was beyond salvageable, and would have to be abandoned, because it was too far gone to repair. Lewy Jon's dump was a prime example. Well, the abandoned house will just sit there, and slowly rot away. Watching something, anything, wither away slowly and just fade, I can't stand it. Better to destroy the damned thing and be done with it, or else, on its way to becoming compost, it will fester, stink, and become host to vermin and lung rot." _

_Casavir frowned, confused. "I still don't understand what this has to do with..." _

"_Everything," she interrupted him. "My point is that unless you're willing to put everything into holding it together, everything rots, and maintaining the order of things as if nothing is wrong means maintaining the rot and disease along with it. If it's gone, it ain't coming back. Better to burn the damned thing to the ground and move on. By its very nature, order invites slow decay if you don't take care, and personally, I simply don't have the patience or desire to care about maintaining something that's bound for the midden heap no matter what." _

He sighed deeply, turning her words from that day long past over and over in his mind, like a jeweller scrutinizing a rare sapphire. _Rare gemstone indeed, _he thought. The Captain had never been what you could call a font of profound wisdom, despite her unusual intelligence and sharp wit. But on that day, she had produced insight born of a rare moment of introspection. At the time, he did not realize it; instead, he focused on what he perceived as a wanton love of conflict and mayhem for its own sake, and had hoped encourage and guide her towards a more balanced, responsible outlook on life. Now, as he looked back once more, he chided himself for not really listening, clouded as he was by his own personal hubris.

_Change her?_ He shook his head in dismay. _Even if I could, would I truly want to? Despite her many faults, she was perfect in her many imperfections. Because when she truly wanted to, she changed of her own free will, and did so because it was who she was. She was, in effect, more human than any of us. _

He turned his thoughts back to her words. He had, and still did, disagree with her opinions regarding the value of order and stability. It was her metaphor of the rotting house in the swamp, however, that held his attention now. _"Well, the abandoned house will just sit there, and slowly rot away. Watching something, anything, wither away slowly and just fade, I can't stand it. Better to destroy the damned thing and be done with it, or else, on its way to becoming compost, it will fester, stink, and become host to vermin and lung rot," _she had said, and though she did not understand then, she had given him answers and insight that offered clarity in the situation he faced now as he gazed at Crossroad Keep, and through it, the power and authority of Neverwinter.

_Rot has infested the city to its core, _he thought. It wasn't just the current farce, with the Captain's "death" and her replacement by someone whose bloodline and background were far more palatable to the ruling class, though it certainly shed more light on the nature of things. In the past few days, as the keep's activity levels rose to a new frenzy in preparation for the changeover, he saw signs of decay and corruption that, on further examination, failed to surprise him at all. What did take him by surprise were that the things he saw, in the attitudes and plans of the newly arrived changeover staff and advisers, were nothing new, and that it wasn't until very recently he had noticed. _I have not been very vigilant, _he scolded himself.

The first sign came with Katriona's surprising resignation. She had left the keep a few days ago to return to the farming community in Old Owl Well she had left to serve the keep. Since the death of Commander Callum, the forces at the Well had abandoned patrolling and scouting the neighboring communities, focusing only on the security of the well and the reconstruction of the old trading routes. The orcs, avoiding the heavily fortified well, started turning their attention back on the scattered settlements, attacking and raiding with a disturbing increase of frequency. Katriona, who still had family and friends there, decided to return and start up an organized militia. "It's like Neverwinter is almost happy about it," she remarked to him on her last morning as they sparred. "If the orcs are raiding smaller, unprotected farms, it takes the pressure off their own forces. I know several people who went to the well to plead for patrols, but their requests were always denied." Though Casavir was loathe to say it aloud, he shared her suspicion as well.

Then there was the order from Nasher that the Captain's Company, the elite force that were the envy of commanders all over the northern Sword Coast, was to be disbanded, its men and women sent off to new assignments. Though the official reason was so a new company for the new commander could be formed for peacetime activities, rumors and whispers through the keep suggested that Nasher and the council had long disliked the idea of a force of crack troops, loyal to a commander they considered unpredictable and far too independent for their liking, so close to their own gates. Casavir held such fears with utter contempt, as such paranoia showed how little they knew her. Far from dreams of power, conquest, or rebellion, the Captain had instead talked about opening up her own festhall in Baldur's Gate, or commandeering a pirate ship and forming a nudist colony on a deserted island in the southern seas. Regardless, most of the Company resigned, and many joined Katriona as she left for home.

The worst, however, was what he discovered through Sand, who had learned it from Aldanon. The mage could barely keep his normally melodic, refined voice from cracking and spitting in rage. "The sheer audacity!" he had almost shrieked as he angrily tossed tomes and scrolls into a travel trunk. "After what she did, if anyone deserves to be buried in the Tomb of the Betrayers, it was her!" He was referring, of course, to Qara. Aldanon had told him, and he confirmed through his own sources, that Qara's remains were being returned to her family for burial in the family crypt, instead of internment in the Tomb of the Betrayers. "Of course, I'm sure I don't need to spell it out for you, exactly how this travesty came to be," Sand added cynically. "It only goes to show you the right connections and a coin in the right purse can go a long way in perverting the course of tradition and justice."

Sand was right; he did not need to spell it out. Though normally loathe to entertain innuendo without solid evidence to support it, Casavir knew there was only one logical explanation. Qara, whose family was prominent and quite wealthy, and whose father was headmaster of the Neverwinter Academy, was spared the indignity of the tomb through political manipulation and influence. Her father, no doubt, had used his influence and status to have his traitorous daughter's status reversed or mitigated, most likely to spare the family embarrassment. More disturbing was Sand's suggestion that she might not even be buried at all, but resurrected in secret and sent off to some family hideaway until something else could be arranged.

The thought made Casavir burn with anger. Sand was correct: she deserved no less. Out of all who had betrayed or would have betrayed the Captain, Qara was the most willing and eager to do so. Neeshka had been forced, and at the risk of her own life, fought the compulsion and broke the geas rather than fight the first real friend she ever had. Bishop's betrayal, though not forced, was driven by something far more dark and personal, and in the end, he lacked the will to carry it out fully. Qara, however, turned on them with little incentive, and for the petty reasons of pride and vanity. And unlike Bishop, who fled, Qara gleefully attacked them, unleashing every flame and spark of destructive power upon the very companions who had once saved her from the schemes of a vengeful instructor and a Hosttower wizard. Had it not been for Zhjaeve's warding and Sand's carefully selected counter-spells, she might have succeeded in killing several of the party members.

Yet she was now going to avoid the disgrace of the Tomb, a fate that Brother Fenthick, who had never been a traitor but a victim of manipulation and injustice, never escaped from. Despite the requests and pleas from the Hall of Justice to have Fenthick's name cleared and his remains laid to rest amongst the other fallen of Tyr, his body still remained in the company of murderers, spies, and oath-breakers. His spirit still dwelled there, unable to seek rest with his Lord in Celestia because of the weight and injustice of his fate still weighed his soul down. Though the Council was more than likely aware of this, their decision remained, non-negotiable. _Of course not. The Temple of Tyr brought their request lawfully before the council, using only the arguments of truth, justice and their faith in Tyr, because bribes and manipulation offends our Lord. _

Casavir shook his had sadly. He had never been cynical like this, always believing that in the end that by its very purity of purpose, justice always had the last say. Now he was seeing that justice in Neverwinter, once the pride and beacon of the Sword Coast, was slowly becoming a fashionable, but empty concept available on request with the prerequisite fee and connections.

_Tyr forgive me, _he prayed. _I am growing jaded and weary. My faith in You, my Lord, remains inviolate, but my faith in the ability of Neverwinter to correct the injustices of its past and present, is fading fast. I ask for your strength and wisdom, my Lord, because I do not wish others to see how disheartened I've become. I cannot allow myself to further diminish morale, which is already low. _

But his thoughts returned to the Captain and her parable of rotting houses. "_My point is that unless you're willing to put everything into holding it together, everything rots, and maintaining the order of things as if nothing is wrong means maintaining the rot and disease along with it. If it's gone, it ain't coming back." _As her voice echoed once again through his thoughts, he could not shake the unpleasant truth it carried. _Is it truly gone that far? _He wondered. He had never before believed that anyone or anything was so far gone that they could not be made right again, if they only chose to turn from the course of destruction and set things right again. _If they choose to. _Neverwinter, it seemed, was choosing to ignore and paint over the rot within, carrying on as if its past wrongs were of no consequence, working more and more on the premise of convenience and expediency. Preserving the rot, so to speak.

He thought back to his first departure from Neverwinter, from his order. The rot was certainly present then, though at the time, his doubts and scorn were focused on himself, and his own perceptions of his obligations and duties were clouded. Though he had convinced himself at the time that the only path of redemption lie in a near suicidal crusade of martyrdom, the fact that Tyr had still been with him was proof enough that he had not fallen. The Great Judge, it seemed, did not find his rather rash decision to leave the city a betrayal of his holy oaths and obligations. Only His paladin's self-doubt and shame were of concern, and the Just Lord had sent a small company of angels to open his eyes, hadn't he?

_Well, not quite angels, _he thought, a wry smile twitching upon his lips as he remembered his first encounter with what would later become his travelling companions. _But Tyr's grace isn't always delivered by his servants, celestial or mortal._

If Casavir could see that not all was right in the City of Skilled Hands, then Tyr certainly saw the corruption at its core. He shuddered to think what the divine sight of his god saw in the city that claimed Him as patron. He remembered his words to Nevalle, that Neverwinter, like all cities and nations, were to be tried and balanced on the divine Scales of Justice. Where did Neverwinter stand? If the city was found to weigh heavier on the left scale, the scale of guilt, what would be the verdict and sentence?

He glanced back at the keep in the distance, wondering if the farce of the memorial service was over or not. It didn't matter in the end. The day after tomorrow, everyone left who was leaving the keep would do so, himself included. Lord Brekin was to be instated as commander, bringing with him his own servants and underlings to staff and work the vacancies that would be left by the large number of people leaving. He wondered how it would affect operations. The keep had been built upon and run by a rather unorthodox set of principles, which suited its rather unorthodox collection of personnel. He knew it was a certainty the new commander would introduce drastic, and more likely stricter, changes, and hoped, for the sake of the people who remained, that those changes would not reduce the quality of life.

_And we who were closest shall be joining the exodus, _he thought. Their search for the Captain had been temporarily suspended as those involved were gathering their things and preparing for their own departures. That was not the only reason, however: no new leads were uncovered, and the drain of exhaustive, but fruitless efforts was beginning to take its toll on everyone. Tyr had sent no more dreams, and Casavir had the feeling that what he saw in the dream would be all he would be permitted to know. Whatever was happening, he had to trust in Tyr's will and judgement on the matter. _When I get to Neverwinter, perhaps the archives in the Hall of Justice will have some answers. _

Casavir did not relish returning to Neverwinter, but he felt it necessary. The doubts and concerns he had regarding the physical, moral, and spiritual state of the city would not rest, and he wanted to speak to someone with authority at the temple. He was not certain his thoughts on the matter would be welcome, as there were still many within the temple who held a dim view of his previous desertion. Regardless of how they felt about him, they surely could not be blind to what was going on, since many in Tyr's service still felt the unhealed wounds of the Luskan War deeper than most.

The sun was beginning to set, and he decided to return to the keep, regardless of whether or not the mock-funeral was over. He had promised the others his help in loading the wagons that would be carrying the Captain's personal belongings. There were many crates worth, and he suspected that the majority of it was junk that the she would have eventually thrown away herself, had the mood taken her, but they still packed everything up, regardless. With the Captain, it was impossible to tell what she would find worth keeping. Duncan had agreed to store her things at the Flagon. Normally, everything would have been given to Daeghun as her next of kin, but since he was no where to be found, the responsibility went to her uncle.

As he walked back, he thought once again of decaying houses and the rot that festered within. "I am not you, Captain," he whispered into the fading light around him. "I cannot raze a building to the ground simply because it is showing signs of wear and decay. Such things can be mended if one truly has the desire to preserve it. On this, once again, I think we will agree to disagree."

* * *

The day of departure came, and Casavir stood outside the gates of the keep next to the small and loaded wagon as he waited for the rest of his companions to arrive. They had not ate breakfast together in the dining hall, as the servants and staff were busy preparing for the reception of the new commander later that day. Because several of their company were going their own ways, they had all agreed to meet outside to say their farewells, as well as discuss possible contingencies and plans should the Captain, or knowledge of her fate, come to light.

Neeshka, contrary to her normal habit of showing up late for many things, was the first to appear. She, along with Sand, were the only two that were returning to Neverwinter. Neeshka and Casavir, had made arrangements to stay at the Flagon, though in her case, he suspected the arrangement would be more permanent. She had come to regard the tavern as a place of refuge and comfort, and Duncan, who enjoyed the tiefling's spirited and energetic personality as well as her ability to spot pickpockets and troublemakers, would be happy for the company.

He noticed that, along with her own things, she carried a larger pack that he did not immediately recognize. When he asked her about it, she explained it was the Captain's "bail out bag".

"She kept it near her night-stand," the tiefling explained as she attached the bag to her horse's saddle. "In case, for whatever reason she had to escape the keep, she could just grab it and go. Its full of stuff she either felt was necessary, useful, or of some significance to her. Prize possessions, and all that. If she felt that strongly about it, I didn't really want to just stuff it in a crate."

Casavir nodded, though he wondered about purpose behind such a thing. Though she had been an impulsive, restless person, he couldn't think of any possible reason she would have simply fled the keep in the midst of the war, despite her intense dislike of her position, given her obsession for destroying the King of Shadows. Even as the final battle drew nearer, her determination grew more intense. "There's no avoiding it, and the only way out of this cage is destruction, either his or mine," she once stated grimly. "No matter which way the coin lands, it's the only way I'll ever be free again."

Did some other possibility, worse than death, gnaw at her inside to the point that flight from what she perceived as salvation would become the most desirable option, or had she considered the suicidal possibility of hunting down the King of Shadows on her own? He shook the thoughts from his head as he heard the shuffling feet and voices of a large group approach.

The crowd was an odd one, consisting of a small group of farmers and the remnants of the lizardfolk who had remained at the keep. At the front was Elanee, dressed in simple green leathers and a tawny colored cloak. The druidess smiled and waved,, and said something briefly to those with her before walking over to join Casavir and Neeshka.

"You are up early," Elanee said to Neeshka,. "I am surprised, though pleasantly so."

"Well, I thought you and Stumpy would be out here first, and didn't want to miss the chance for some last minute looting through your stuff," the tiefling replied with a sly grin.

Elanee chuckled. "Well, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I've brought nothing with me except some food and the clothing I wear." She turned to Casavir. "I trust you are looking forward to the journey back to Neverwinter, then?"

"More or less. I think leaving the keep alone might do us all some good," he said, looking over at the group of villagers and lizardfolk. "I see you have succeeded in gathering participants to take part in your own endeavors."

The druidess followed his gaze, and nodded. Elanee was returning to the Mere, to begin the long process of reviving the land and restoring the wilderness that had been lost to the shadows. Yet she was not to be alone: both the lizardmen and Harbormen were eager to return and aid her. The druidess saw in the desires of both groups the key to the rebirth of the Mere, and the seeds of promise for a new age of cooperation and rebirth, both for the land and the peoples who inhabited it.

"The New Circle of the Mere," Elanee explained. "In seeing the hopes and dreams of the lizardfolk and farmers, it became clear to me that if the Mere is ever to rise again, it needs more than a small group of reclusive druids to do so. Nature's bounty and mysteries are meant for all. I will be working to foster harmony and understanding between both peoples, so that they may work together to reclaim their homes. I shall teach the Harbormen how to live in harmony with the Mere, even as they build their homes and tend their fields. I once thought that all aspects of civilization were in direct conflict with the land, but now...I have learned otherwise."

"It seems as if both peoples are eager for this," Casavir noted, as he watched some of the humans and lizardmen conversing together.

"Indeed," Elanee replied. "They do not simply wish to reclaim their homes, but forge new bonds. Will be decades, maybe even centuries before the Mere is ever fully restored, and it will never be the same place again. But, a thing reborn is never as it was, and the new Mere that emerges will be reborn with new vigor and resilience, and with all its peoples united together for its health and preservation, perhaps it will be able to resist threats better in the future."

"A noble endeavor, Elanee," Casavir agreed. "May the gods bless your efforts."

The druidess smiled. "I believe they already have," she said, looking over at her traveling group. "But thank you, Casavir. May the earth be firm beneath your feet, and the gentle winds at your back as your own journey begins."

The three of them sat down and spoke for a while, and soon, Khelgar and the remainder of the Ironfists joined them, the dwarves resembling a small column of walking stone blocks clad in metal. Khelgar was returning to his clan to help lead them through their own recovery. "No word on the Captain, and I'll be damned if I'm goin' to sit around on my ass doin' nothin' while these damn fools trip over themselves for some new "commander" who ain't got the guts to fight beyond sparring with his servants," he grumbled as glared at the keep's walls. "Rather be spendin' time with my clan, makin' up for lost time, as well as mendin bridges with Keros and some others."

"And draining the clan kegs, most likely," Neeshka added with a wry grin.

Khelgar sneered back, and turned to Casavir. "So your goin' back Neverwinter, I take it, to knock some sense into those idiots runnin' the place."

"Well, not quite like that," Casavir told him, "But I do hope to bring several matters to the attention of those in authority, in the hopes they will see their errors, and rectify the growing injustices before it is too late."

"Pheh. You'd have better luck crackin' their thick skulls first," Khlegar snorted. "But good luck, anyway. When you're finished there, you know you're always welcome to come stay with the Ironfists. As far as I'm concerned, you're a clan brother, and our halls are always open to you, and your seat at our feasts is always there."

"I would enjoy that immensely. It would would be an honor to be a guest at your tables." After he had turned in his resignation, Casavir and considered the possibility of going with Khlegar back to the clanhold to assist the Ironfists in establishing their presence in their part of the Sword Mountains. "Perhaps when my business in Neverwinter is finished, I will."

"Lookin forward to it!" Khlegar clasped the paladin's forearm. "You'll never want for good food and even better mead. And..." The dwarf leaned in and gave a sly wink. "I've heard a few of the lasses in the clan say that if you grew yourself a proper beard and put some meat on your gut, you'd make a fine catch for any woman!"

Casavir could not help blushing, and with a chuckle, he replied, "Very well. You have convinced me then."

"Hey, moss-breath, what about me?" Neeshka asked indignantly.

"Eh? Oh yeah, I guess you're welcome to," Khelgar said reluctantly, though his tone and face betrayed humor and warmth. "Just give us warning before you do, so everyone can lock up their valuables and seal up the treasury vault."

"Right, like that would stop me," Neeshka said with an impish grin.

Dwarf and tiefling regarded one another for a while, and Casavir knew that despite their frequent needling and trading of jibes, the two would miss each other tremendously. Of all the members of their party, Neeshka and Khelgar had traveled with the Captain longer than anyone else, and had eventually formed a silent respect and fondness for one another. Their constant teasing and bickering often reinforced this in a strange, but playful way.

A half hour later and Zhjaeve and Sand joined them. The wizard had brought with him a couple of carefully wrapped parcels, which he added to the wagon that contained theirs and the Captain's things. The githzerai cleric approached them with the calm, outer-planar grace she always moved with.

"Are you returning to your people, Zhjaeve?" Elanee inquired.

"That is my plan, yes," Zhjaeve replied. "Know that I believe the answers we seek might not be easily found in this plane, and in my communications with my people, new questions have arisen that I feel must be confronted."

"Oh?" Sand turned and raised an eyebrow. "Would you be so kind as to share with the rest of us?"

"Know that after Casavir shared his vision with us, I immediately contacted my people in Limbo to share this information, in the hopes that they might provide insight into the fate of both the Kalach-Cha and sword that was taken with her. Since then, I had not received any word...until two nights ago. And what was told concerns me"

"And..." Sand pressed, eying Zhjaeve expectantly.

Though much of her face was hidden behind her veil, the expression in her eyes was troubled. She spoke with hesitation. "They had no knowing of the Kalach-Cha or the Sword of Gith, nor did they discover anything of help. The Zerths, however, who had returned from their journeys to other planes, discovered something that unsettled them deeply."

Sand was about to say something, no doubt in his customary abrasive manner, but Casavir shot him a look, and the elf sighed and nodded. "Please continue, then," he said with surprising patience.

"The Zerths who traveled spoke of subtle whispers and echoes through the planes, whispers and portents of something of great significance that weighed on the awareness of many in the planes. They knew nothing of the meaning of such portents, only that they hinted towards a nexus where law and chaos, conflict and resolution, creation and destruction would meet on the battlefield of a war that neither began nor ended. It was troubling enough for them to return to Limbo and warn the Circle of Zerthimon, and I am compelled to return as well."

"So something big is about to go down in the Outer Planes?" Neeshka asked anxiously. "I hope whatever it is, it stays there."

"For once, we agree," Sand sighed. "I certainly to not relish the prospect of living through a repeat of the Time of Troubles. One major cataclysm is enough for a lifetime, I think."

"It is unknown to me," Zhaeve stated. "Whatever the nature of these omens are, it seems that even the greater powers of the planes are concerned. Perhaps this is why divination with beings of the planes has not been successful."

"I would agree, except we only fail when it comes to the Captain," Sand explained. "Why that would be, I don't know, but it does not fill me with warm or fuzzy feelings."

Silence followed as they pondered what Zhjaeve had said, and what it might imply. Casavir briefly wondered if somehow, the Captain might have been inadvertently swept into this "storm" that Zhjaeve spoke of, and decided, for the moment, put it in the back of his mind. They had enough concerns and worries amongst them, and they needed to focus. When he got to Neverwinter, he would follow this possible line of inquiry.

His musings were interrupted by the alarmed yelps of village dogs and the uneasy whickers of the horses. He looked around for the cause of the disturbance, and immediately relaxed once he saw it. Around the corner of the far wall of the keep, the large, eight legged form of Kistrel emerged, with two small figures on his back. As they approached, Casavir recognized them: Grobnar in the front, with the reptillian form of Deekin seated behind him. Walking along side the giant arachnid was a slightly plump human man dressed in simple brown robes.

"Good morning, everyone!" Grobnar called out cheerfully as Kistrel came to a stop. The gnome and his kobald companion slide down the spider's side and joined the others. Casavir took another look at Kistrel, and was surprised to see that the spider was hauling a small, light-weight, empty cart behind him. He gave the gnome a quizzical look, motioning to the cart.

"Oh, that? Well, I'm glad you asked," Grobnar explained. "This fine gentleman here is Turris, one of the priests of Chauntea from Highcliff." The plump man smiled and bowed.

"Well met, Casavir of Tyr," Turris said, and gave Casavir a warm, firm handshake. "Grobnar has told me much about you, and I am honored to make your acquaintance."

"Thank you," Casavir replied. "I take it that you will be traveling with Grobnar and Deekin?"

"Indeed he will," Grobnar confirmed. "He is is going to help us bring Shandra home."

"Bring Shandra home?" Neeshka asked? But..she's..."

"I know," Grobnar interrupted gently. His face became a little more somber. "I mean, her earthly remains. It's been bothering me ever since that awful day in Ammon Jerro's haven, that poor Shandra, who gave her life for her friends, still suffers the indignity of being buried under all that ugly, evil touched rock. I know that we simply didn't have the time or resources to do much about it during the whole Shadow War, with all the other urgent matters we had to deal with. But now that it's all over, I've been thinking about it a lot more lately, and..."

"Deekin think it a very nice idea," the kobald agreed. "Deekin not want to stay at keep. New commander not like kobalds much, and Smooth-Man with scary eye on shirt make rude comments when he think Deekin not listening. Much rather find nice farm lady and help plant flowers for farm. Maybe even write nice poem for funeral, too!"

Turris elaborated. "Grobnar here told me of what happened to the late Miss Jerro, and how much she loved her farm. I spoke in length with my fellow clerics and several of the people of Highcliff. Shandra was well loved and respected in the community, and the villagers wanted to have a proper memorial to her memory. Many of the local farmers, as well as the clerics, are donating spare time to turn the Jerro farm into a beautiful memorial garden. When Grobnar informed me that he wished to retrieve her earthly remains from the rubble of her grandfather's dungeons and return them to her home, I offered to accompany him, both to help tend to her remains, as well as deal with any problems, should any of Mr. Jerro's former 'associates' should be lingering." The priest looked down towards the gnome. "Though her spirit now rests in the bosom of the Earthmother, I agree with you, that her body should rest in a sacred place as well."

"When it's all finished, I hope you all will come down and visit, and pay your respects," Grobnar said to everyone. "Hopefully, by then, we will find the Captain, and if she comes, then it will almost be like old times!" The gnome paused, and then added, "Well, minus a couple of rather foul-tempered individuals, but we won't mention them."

Casavir regarded Grobnar with profound admiration. Though the often quirky gnome was fond of exploring bizarre ideas and musing over strange concepts, it was a heart filled with hope, wonder, and compassion that provided the drive to action. "I could think of no greater way of honoring her memory," Casavir said. "Shandra was blessed to have a friend such as you." Smiling, he added, "As are the rest of us, as well."

"I'll second that," Neeshka, said, bending down and kissing the gnome on the cheek. "I'm sure gonna miss you, Grobby. I don't give a shit what anyone else might say about you, I hope you never change."

For a moment, Grobnar looked as if tears were forming in his eyes. He spoke softly. "You know, I'm going to miss each and every one of you. Even you, Khelgar!"

"Heh. The feelin's mutual, arrowbait," the dwarf replied with a chuckle. "But don't ya start getting' all weepy on me. And since you're gonna be goin to a place that might still have fiends roamin' around, ya might need some muscle in case things get ugly." He turned to his fellow clan members, and two stepped forward, nodding in earnest. "This here's Kulgin and Khalbron, both fine Ironfist warriors. Looks like they are volunteerin' to help you out at the Haven, in case things get ugly. They can also help you dig through all that rock, too, an' make it easier to find her."

"Khelgar, I..." Grobnar was at a loss for words. "I don't know how to thank you enough. This is..."

"Bah," Khelgar rumbled. "You don't need to thank me. Wouldn't sleep well if you didn't have anyone lookin out for ya, makin' sure to get your back in case things get hairy. Especially with all the trouble you manage to get into."

Grobnar's face beamed brightly as he looked at each on of the companions, taking in their faces briefly before he moved on to the next. "You know, one might think that this would be a very sad occasion, with all of us going our separate ways. But fate is a funny thing, and I have seen things in my life that ended up being part of a larger, more wondrous plan. I have a feeling, deep down, that this isn't the last time we'll be meet. And when that time comes, I think the Captain will be there too. Never give up on your dreams!"

Once again, Grobnar's optimism proved catching, and as they finally began to say their farewells, it was done with a a spirit of hope and confidence. One by one, they began to depart with their respective parties, until only Casavir, Neeshka, Sand, and the wagon remained.

As Casavir watched the retreating forms of his companions, he felt a touch of loss tug at his heart. He closed his eyes and sent a prayer after them. _Tyr bless you all, wherever your journeys may take you. May the light of truth guide you, and the spirit of justice walk by your sides. I wish you all well. _A moment later, he turned to his two remaining friends.

"Shall we be off?" he suggested. Both Sand and Neeshka nodded in agreement, and with one last look at the fortress that had once been their home and refuge, they set off themselves.

* * *

They had not cleared the trail that led from the keep to the main road when they heard the thundering of hooves behind them, coming from the keep. They turned look, and saw a single rider on horseback approaching swiftly. Casavir frowned, wondering if something happened in the keep. As the rider approached, Neeshka let slip a a sharp cry of surprise, and he heard her smack her forehead.

"Oh, shit, I can't believe I forgot!" she gasped, shaking her head. "Gods, I hope he doesn't think I was blowing him off and doing a runner!"

Sand frowned in consternation. "You hope _who _doesn't think you are blowing him off?" The elf demanded, squinting in an attempt to identify the rider. From his tone, the elf was fostering a sense of dread.

"Eh..well, I forgot to tell you, you see," Neeshka answered nervously. "I hope you don't mind, but I invited a friend to come with us. I was going to tell you, but I got all wrapped up in saying goodbye to everyone, and it slipped my mind."

"What _friend?" _Sand pressed, irritation in his voice. "I thought that..." He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in horror as the face of approaching rider became clear. "Oh, by the gods, Neeshka, tell me you did _not _invite...that _thing..." _

The rider on horseback halted, and Casavir felt a similar sense of surprise and wariness that Sand displayed. Wind and exertion had reddened the man's face, but the scars and pockmarks that marked it were still visible. He pushed the lank, uncombed hair from his eyes as he hastily dismounted. The twin blades that had given him his name swung slightly from his belt as he approached them, his eyes focused solely on Neeshka.

"Gods, I am so sorry, Jalboun," Neeshka apologized, running her hand through her hair. "I completely forgot, honest! I just got distracted this morning, and..."

"Trying to ditch me, eh?" Jalboun of the Two blades asked, frowning. Before Neeshka could protest, he burst into laughter. "It's allright, I know. My fault, woke up late. Sleeping off a bad drunk from last night." He grinned widely, displaying teeth that were crooked, and somewhat discolored. "Just glad I caught up to you before you guys had gone too far."

Neeshka visibly relaxed. "So am I," she replied, relieved. "I'm so glad you understand. I didn't want you to think that I was just gonna leave you here."

"No sweat," he said, waving it away. "Shit happens, and I know you wanted to see all your mates off. So, we're off to Neverwinter now?"

"_We _are off to nowhere," Sand snapped. "_Casavir, Neeshka, _and _I _are returning home to Neverwinter. _You, _on the other hand._.." _Sand thrust his hand eastward. "The nearest copper a night brothel is that way. I'm sure they have a muck-ridden stall in their barn to accommodate you."

"Really? Well, if I ever visit, I'll be sure to give your momma a half copper tip when I'm done with her," Jalboun replied snidely. "But really, I'm not interested, thanks. Neeshka here offered to give me a tour of your fine city, and I'd be a dozy twat if I turned down such a chance." His smile softened as looked at Neeshka, and Casavir could not help but note how strange the expression looked on the hardened mercenary's face.

Neeshka turned back to Sand and Casavir. "Look, I promised him I'd take him to Neverwinter and show him around," she explained. "It's my fault I didn't tell you earlier, but honestly, I meant to. I promise, he won't cause any trouble. Its just, he really doesn't have anywhere to go, and they'd probably execute him if he tried to return to Luskan."

"We can only hope," Sand muttered. Casavir shot him a stern look. The elf shook his head in disbelief.. "Oh, please tell me you aren't actually considering it! Haven't you already had your fill of foul-mouthed, unwashed ex-Luskan mercenaries for one life-time?"

Casavir studied the man who had once served as one of the Captain's sergeants. He knew little of Jalboun, having little interaction with him, and from others had said about him,that seemed the wisest choice. The few times he had reason to speak to him, the impression was less than favorable. In many ways, Jalboun's mannerisms were similar to Bishop, such as his blatant insubordination, overindulgence in strong drink, and the way he openly leered at women, often with rude comments_._ He wondered what motive the mercenary had for wanting to accompany them, and wasn't sure he liked the idea of once again traveling with someone who reminded him too much of the traitorous ranger.

He felt a tug on his cloak, and looked over to see Neeshka standing next to him, her gaze fixed intently upon him. "I know what you're thinking," she said softly, her eyes unwavering. "And I understand your doubts. But I'm asking you to trust my judgment on this. And, despite what you might be feeling, Cas, please remember, he's not Bishop."

_No, he is not, _Casavir thought, turning his attention back to the mercenary. Whatever his faults, he had served the Captain and the keep faithfully, even once suggesting that he enjoyed his job. He had fought the legions of shadows alongside everyone else, never once giving any reason to suggest he might flee. And though he had been bribed to turn on the Ambassador Sydney Natalle, he later admitted he would have done it for half the price, as he was getting tired of working as a Hosttower lackey. Apparently, the jobs they were hiring him for were even testing the limits of his own self-confessed lack of scruples.

_Everyone deserves a chance, and this man before me is no exception. Neeshka trusts him, and she is not one who trusts easily. I shall not judge him by rumor and limited impressions, though I shall keep my eye on him. _

"Very well," Casavir finally said. "You are welcome to travel with us, since Neeshka considers you a friend, and I shall accept her opinion on the matter. I do, however, expect you to conduct yourself in a manner that is civil, respectful, and honorable towards those you travel with and meet. I will not tolerate lewd, cruel, or disruptive behavior towards anyone, or from anyone. Do you agree to these terms?"

Jalboun grinned, his crooked teeth removing any pleasantness from the expression. "Yeah, sure. I'll pull my halo out of my pocket and get to polishing it. I'll be a good boy, I promise."

"What?!" Sand gasped in horror. "You can't be serious! Ignore his orcish linguistic skills, lack of even plant-based intelligence, or his disregard for even basic hygiene if you must, but you can't ignore the fact that he was once an officer in the Luskan army, and was amongst those who almost razed Neverwinter to the ground in the previous war."

"I'm aware of that," Casavir replied softly. "But that is hardly a fair way of judging him, and whatever his past, it is what he does now that concerns me. You yourself once dwelled amongst the ranks of the Hosttower, and if anyone should appreciate the importance of not holding the past against someone, it would be you."

Though the rebuke was delivered gently, Sand turned away, looking a little embarrassed. "Well played, my noble friend," he replied with a heavy sigh. "I will concede your point. I am being unfair." He turned to Jalboun. "Very well, you can tag along with us. Just remember, when we set up camp, do me a favor and set up your bedroll _downwind _from me, would you?"

"The it is settled," Casavir said. "We should be off now. The day is half gone, and I wish to be as far from the keep as possible before nightfall."

The four of them were on the High Road when they heard the sounds of heraldic trumpets from the keep, announcing the beginning of the change of command ceremony.


	10. The Call of Cthulhu

_Note: My apologies for the delay since my last chapter. between real life and the release of Dragon Age: origins and it's expansion, I ended up putting Fade to Black on the back burner and damned near forgetting it. My thanks to Anesor for her continued, gentle prodding as well asbeta reading assistance, else I'd still be merrily slaying darkspawn and forgetting my other RPG love, NWN2._

_**2nd of Kythorn, 1384 **_

The first of the corpse flies had begun to arrive at the new feast prepared for them as Faithless staggered away from from the aftermath of her latest attack. Their frenzied buzzing grew louder and filled the still, overcast morning with a dire droning that sang a dirge of more lives ended in a savage orgy of destruction. She paused briefly to listen, savoring the sound like a well written victory ballad sung in a tavern. _The gnome could do no better, _she thought as she collapsed into some low lying heath with a heavy gasp.

She felt weak and exhausted, and her body still ached from numerous wounds and blows that had not yet been healed by the Sword's regenerative powers. Still clutching the pommel tightly, she pulled herself into a tight huddle and waited patiently for the restoration cycle to complete. She considered pulling out a healing potion to quicken the process, but decided against it. Her supplies were running low, and as far as she could tell, there were no more threats in the area that required a quicker recovery. The Sword would heal her injuries given time. The pain and fatigue, however, required food and sleep to remedy. _Two things I need that the Sword cannot give me, _shed added to herself.

Since the day at Thenig's Stand, she only stopped to eat and sleep when her body was on the verge of collapse from being mercilessly driven from one kill to the next without the benefit of either in between. Her pack lay dozens of yards away with what remained of her dwindling supplies. Shortly after Therig's Stand, she prowled the Crags in search of any other prey that might be lurking, but a sudden thunderstorm and subsequent flash flood had swept away a third of her stores. Little remained that was salvageable, and Faithless had turned to foraging for whatever she could find to stretch the use of what remained. More often than not, the few meals she did stop to take consisted of live grubs, worms, crickets, and anything else too slow or stupid to get away from her quickly. She had even conditioned herself to eat her finds without the urge to cringe at the feel of still living creatures wriggling on her tongue. Glancing down at the thick heather surrounding her, she wondered what sort of feast lurked beneath the clusters of dark green foliage and grey flowers. When the Sword released it's last regenerative pulse, she lurched forward and began tearing away at plant and soil in search of her next meal.

_How I wish someone could see this! _The Voice of Self Mockery laughed caustically. _The great "Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep and slayer of Myrkul", now reduced to crawling about on all fours like some stinking beast, filling her mouth with whatever is unlucky enough to crawl into it. _

_It keeps you alive, you ungrateful cow, _Faithless snapped back. _It keeps all of you alive sadly, but most importantly, it keeps my Terrible Purpose alive, and that's what really burns you, isn't it? _The Voice became silent, and Faithless laughed as she stuffed a particularly fat beetle in her mouth and crunched contentedly.

Having sated her hunger for the time being, Faithless stood up and returned to the carnage strewn trail where her newest kills lay. Flies danced about eagerly to get their fill, and a few landed on her face to taste the blood that had started to dry there. She casually swatted them away as she kicked the corpse of a female to its side so she could study it further. Cold blue eyes filled with the void of death stared back at her from a face forever frozen in a mortal grimace. The woman's head barely remained attached to her neck, and Faithless frowned, wishing she could remember landing the blow that had done that. It was a common annoyance she experienced after every kill, with the actual battles being little more than empty, disconnected images that seemed to shift and blur until they sped through her mind with little coherence.

This was no different. It started as all others did. Careful surveys of the terrain, traps set, approaching enemies studied, plans set in motion to fight from the shadows, tricks and plans within plans calculated. It was a style that was far more suited to her talents and tastes, and it was always how she preferred her fights. Speed, trickery, and a blade in a back had always been her forte. Yet despite this, it always came down to the Sword of Gith, and sensing the lifeblood of foes still breathing, the Sword refused to stay out of a fight. Once the blade was in her hand, things changed. Drastically.

Faithless moved amongst the dead, examining the damage done to each corpse, and her irritation grew. There were no blissful blackouts in the battles. She was aware enough to know what was happening, and conscious enough to guide her own actions. Yet once her will reached out and grasped the Sword, she became something else entirely. There were no great physical transformations. She was certain that her own body remained as it was. Nor did she feel as if she were possessed by entity, becoming a mere puppet dancing on strings. Her mind was entirely her own.

Yet still she changed. Body, mind, and soul faded, and a new awareness took their place. Her entire person was abandoned, and only the essence of her core self remained, united in conceptual intercourse with the essence and purpose of the blade. Reality around her detached itself, and everything, from pain, fear, and emotion to her primal senses vanished along with it. She was not simply a raving juggernaut of death, but the very idea of complete annihilation directed by unyielding resolve.

It was that very transformation that began to drive her mercilessly to the point of exhaustion, more so than the hunger for more patrols to kill. The memory of it haunted her well before the first bodies started to cool, and that longing was her constant companion in between kills. It was a hunger forever at the back of her thoughts at night, silencing even the most petulant murmurings of the Shattered Host. Even her dreams, when she had them, were not immune, and often, she would wake up, shaking and sweating like a lotus-addict with severe withdrawals, suddenly cut off from the meaning of her existence. Like an addict, she often neglected her own basic survival needs, such as eating, sleeping, and bathing, to seek out that state of being once again, and when it was over, she was left drained, bruised, and with a vague, disturbing feeling that something, somewhere within, was missing.

Faithless started rummaging through the corpses in search of anything useful that might be added to her own dwindling supplies. She noted with dismay that several flasks containing various liquids that were likely potions had been violently shattered, and wished that she had been more careful in striking down the patrol. None of the dead were mages or clerics, and other than a few coins and a small quantity of enchanted arrows, there was little of interest. With a sigh, she stood up and the last corpse a solid kick of frustration.

The blow rolled the body so that its face was visible, and Faithless was momentarily startled. Judging by the downy beginnings of facial hair covering his jaw, she guessed his age at perhaps 16 or 17 winters. However, it was not his apparent youth that caught her attention, but his appearance. Even dead and covered in dried blood, his pale brown eyes, hard-set jaw, and uncombed auburn hair bore a strange resemblance to the ranger whose memory had inspired this lad's death. Though the similarities between the newly dead boy and long dead man ended on a more detailed examination, she was still transfixed by the corpse's face.

_Could have been him, long ago, _she mused. _He'd been "conscripted" into the Luskan forces when he was fifteen. Was this where it went? Was this a fate that could have very easily been his, had he been in the right place at the wrong time? One wrong step, one bad call, and you would have never haunted that dank corner in Duncan's tavern, or my life, for that matter. _

The thought carried a profound sense of both liberation and loss with it, and despite a sudden flurry of incoherent whispers from the Shattered Host, she refused to shake the idea from her mind. _Something so seemingly insignificant could have changed everything. How many ambushes from disgruntled citizens and bitter enemies had he escaped before Red Fallows Watch? Just a stray arrow, a dagger, a spell...and none of this would be happening right now. _

_No, you're right, it wouldn't. _She blinked with surprise. It was the Voice of the child, who had once tried to convince her once to turn down the trail leading back home. It caught her off guard, as this particular Voice only spoke once, and then had vanished since. She wondered just where this Voice came from. It certainly held no association with the Shattered Host.

_Not important, _the childish Voice replied. _You don't want me around anyway, and at the rate you're going, you'll get your wish soon enough. What's important is that you look at that dead guy and the things he makes you think about, and then look at where this will ultimately take you._

_What? What do you mean? _Faithless demanded. She looked back at the corpse.

_You! Why are you still around, child? _Terrible Purpose growled, stepping out from her relative silence to confront the interloper within.

_This has nothing to do with you! So leave me alone! _The childish voice answered defiantly.

_Everything has to do with me, and you had better well learn that, girl, _Terrible Purpose growled threateningly.

Faithless grimaced, and screamed so loudly it startled a flock of ravens that had come to feast on corpses. "Both of you! Shut up! It has fuck all to do with either of you! I don't need this shit. Just shut up! Can't I have a fucking thought of my own without any of you opening your mouths?"

_Your thoughts ALWAYS are of interest and concern to me, _Terrible Purpose shot back dangerously. _I exist because you need me more than I need you. Remember that. Without me..._

Faithless stood up slowly, and with a helpless groan, she replied: _You win. _She felt a hint of cold satisfaction from Terrible Purpose as the Voice receded. She abruptly stood up and marched over to where her pack lay, slinging it over her shoulder roughly. Without a further glance back towards the carnage she left, she left the scene in search of a suitable place to catch up on the required sleep she had missed, so she could begin her crusade anew.

"That should have been you back there, ranger," she murmured bitterly. "Better for us all if you had died in some shitty, dank Luskan hole. It would have saved us both a lot of grief. Especially me."

The Child within wailed, and eventually, faded back into nowhere.

_**10th of Kythorn, 1384**_

The crisp night air cut through her lungs like broken glass as Faithless woke from her nightmare, gasping and shivering. Her eyes roved about the camp site, trying desperately to find some focus to help shake off the last remaining strands of the dream web that still lingered like a corpse shroud. She jerked herself up into a sitting position, provoking a sharp protest from her back and neck, which were stiff and aching from the uncomfortable position they had been thrown into during her sleep. She allowed herself a short grunt and began gingerly rubbing the base of her neck while carefully swaying her back to help release the tension.

The pain began to recede, and Faithless was left feeling cold and clammy from the thin layer of sweat that covered her. The fire had completely died out, not leaving even the faintest glowing ember, and with a sigh, she pulled her cloak tightly around her and conjured up the desired heat through controlled shivering. Since her arrival in Luskan lands, she had still not gotten used to the climate that existed north of the Nerverwinter woods. It was almost Midsummer, yet the weather never seemed to move beyond a state that would, further south, be considered mid-spring. She remembered the sage in Longsaddle mentioning this. "The coldest winter I've ever spent was a summer in Luskan," he had told her. She wished now that she had paid more attention to that part and invested in warmer clothing. _Next patrol, _she promised. She would try to avoid mutilating her victims too badly, in the hopes some of their garments could be salvaged. _If I can even remember to do so. _

_I'll try and remind you, then, if it makes you feel better, _Terrible Purpose whispered dryly. _Though it would be a shame to distract you. You are getting better and better. _

Faithless snorted. _Really? Does it even matter? The end result is the same, no matter what. That's all I care about. _

_Maybe in the world surrounding you, but what about the one within? The one that you unmade so that I could exist? The end result is not the same. Your dreams do not lie._

Rubbing her temples to ease the aching that always seemed to result from communing with Terrible Purpose, her mind began to drift back to the nightmare she woke from. The dream itself was hardly unusual or noteworthy; it had haunted her in slightly varied forms for the past few months. The Betrayer's Crusade, the assault on the City of Judgment. The frenzied, mad charge into the heart of Kelemvor's power. A diverse army of contradictory factions driven by a multitude of agendas that all dovetailed into one common goal: Destruction of the Wall of the Faithless. Since she had been cast back down into Faerun, she was certain she would be cursed to relive the fatally doomed scenario in her dreams for the rest of her life.

_It's the same dream I've been having. Or have you not been paying attention, _Faithless projected, annoyed.

_I have been paying very close attention, _Terrible Purpose shot back coolly. _The question is, have you? _

"Stop answering my questions with more fucking questions," Faithless snapped out loud. "Either say what you have to say, or just shut up like the others!"

_I have said it. It's up to you to realize it. I am not here to do your thinking for you. _

One of the Voices from the Shattered Host began giggling. _Ooohhhh, I know the answer! But I think I'll just sit here with my lips sealed, and amuse myself watching you stumble your way to it, if you ever get that far. _A few more giggles erupted within the Host until her mind was filled with their combined laughter.

Faithless was now irritated. _To the Hells with you all, then! You're just toying with me now! Well, I'm not falling for it. I know your game. Shut up and crawl back into your holes where you belong! _

_Tsk tsk, _Terrible Purpose scolded. _Perhaps you should try listening to them once in a while. They seem __to possess insight that you are now sorely lacking, since you banished it along with them. _

_What? You're actually agreeing with them, now? You're supposed to be working for ME, not THEM! _

_I work for myself. And I will agree with whoever furthers my reason for existence, which is to keep you on the Crusader's road. _

_Then don't you ever agree with them again, _Faithless warned the Voice. _I will not tolerate divided loyalties here, and THEY cannot be trusted! I don't care if they offer the meaning of life on a silver fucking platter! Tell them to shut up, or I swear by oblivion, I WILL take my dagger and remove my brains through my ears to silence you all for good! _

_You will do no such thing! _Terrible Purpose hissed. _I will not allow it! You would not end the Crusade before its time! _

_Try me, _Faithless shot back, her thoughts cool and deadly. She grabbed the hilt of her dagger and drew it, pressing the tip just outside her ear canal. _Choose your next words carefully. My hand is not particularly steady at this point. _

There was a long silence within her mind. Finally, Terrible Purpose spoke. _Very well. Have it your way. If that's what it takes to keep you from coring your own brains out in a hissy fit, then I will concede. I shall never accept or agree with anything the others have to say, no matter how sound, useful, or insightful it may be. Happy now? _

_No. _Faithless turned her attention back to the Shattered Host. _And YOU will never again speak unless spoken to! Don't think I don't know what goes on amongst you when you hide from me. You think I don't know what lies behind your whispers and laughter? I know you are all plotting amongst yourselves against me. Don't think for a minute that I'm not on to you. Your plans will fail, and you will suffer dearly if you keep it up! _

The Host backed away from her conscious mind, and Faithless felt smug satisfaction that they had been permanently humbled, and a mutiny in her mind averted. Her thoughts focused once again on Terrible Purpose. _Now, you were discussing the dream? _

_Not important, _Terrible Purpose murmured irritably. _Just...go back to sleep. Or don't. It matters not. _

_You better not be keeping anything important from me, _Faithless growled, sheathing her dagger.

_I am not. It was merely an observation. Forget anything was mentioned. _Terrible Purpose quietly receded.

Sighing deeply, Faithless shut her eyes and waited patiently for the pain in her skull to fade away. Images from her dream began to slowly unravel and dissipate against the velvet blackness of her thoughts, and she tried in vain to grasp one before it vanished, to discern if there was indeed some sort of message she had missed, or if it was simply a case of the Voices taunting her with gibberish once again. Deciding on the latter, she slumped back once again, in the hopes of recapturing the sleep that had rudely escaped her grasp. Like many nights, however, it did not return.

Raindrops smelling of the spruce they dripped from splattered onto the unfurled map, smudging the ink slightly and provoking an irritated curse from Faithless as she pulled her cloak around tighter in an attempt to shield herself and the map of the Luskan sewer system from the steady drizzle that was falling. Carefully, she blotted the excess ink in an attempt to keep the map legible. _The gods are pissing on me, attempting to slow my crusade, _she thought with amusement. _Like growing up in a bog didn't teach me about living in perpetual dampness. _

She peered up at the corpse grey sky through the branches of the trees that provided meager shelter from the weather. It had not stopped raining for days. Far from the balmy, refreshing showers that had often visited West Harbor in the summer, the Luskan rain felt only a fraction warmer than sleet. Much to her surprise, however, the number of patrols she had encountered had increased, which led her to conclude that someone in Luskan was starting to notice the abnormally high mortality rate of their patrols. While the tanari within relished the prospect of the steady increase of violence, she knew from her last encounter that the patrols were getting larger and better equipped. She had spent a day huddled under a bramble hiding while the Sword of Gith slowly healed the larger than normal amount of damage she had taken. She realized then that it was time to move on to the next step: the heart of the beast itself: Luskan proper.

_And then what? _She wondered. _I can't continue as I have been. Harder to kill en masse within the city walls without someone noticing quicker. And there is also the Hosttower, which careful scrutinizes everything in the city. _

_Akachi's crusade did not remain the same battle, and neither will yours, _Terrible Purpose whispered. _You will know what to do next, because you are the crusade. _

Turning her attention back to the map, she made a mark on a point of potential interest, marking the place where the sewers ran under the deserted ruins of Illusk. That was a place to avoid: the notes and lore she had picked up spoke of a dead quarter haunted by twisted magic and all manner of abominations. Though undead occasionally wandered out from the ruins and the portion of sewer that ran beneath them, they generally remained in what some scholars nicknamed "the district of the damned". She had no intention of finding out just how "damned" the area was. Of all the monsters and creatures in the realms, none terrified her like the undead did. Even worse, she noted it ironic that the best defense and weapon against undead was the faith and power of a deity. The idea made her want to vomit, and she pushed it from her thoughts, switching to another map that showed the outer perimeter of Luskan and the outer entrances to the sewer system.

After settling on an entrance route, she rolled each map up in a ragged cloth and carefully returned them to their scroll cases. At her current pace, she would end up outside of Luskan city by tomorrow evening. Though weary and eager to move on, she hoped she would get one last kill in to sate her ever increasing appetite for carnage. It was similar to the craving she once held for spirits; a void that desired to be filled, but never could.

_I'm tired, _she thought. _I want sleep. I need sleep._

_Ignore the weaknesses of your body, crusader, _Terrible Purpose chided. _There will be plenty of sleep waiting for you in the grave. But the crusade waits for no one._

Faithless nodded weakly in agreement. Sleep must be fought off like the unwanted embrace of a lecherous old man. She would only give into it when her body forced the issue. And then only for a couple of hours. Between the guidance of Terrible Purpose and the relentless drive sustained by The Sword, she found that she could run on sheer will and hatred for most of the time.

With a quiet grunt she stood up, forcing the exhaustion away once again. The drizzle had increased slightly, threatening to become a full rain, but she didn't care. She would not allow the gods to piss on her Crusade. It would continue, come the Hells or high water. Pulling her cloak tighter and her hood lower, she set off towards the Northwest, where the city of Luskan waited for her.

It was an unlikely place and time for the Great Epiphany, but it was in the _Sodden Oak _inn, after a meal of crusty bread and sour ale, that the true purpose behind her Crusade was realized. The _Sodden Oak _itself was unremarkable; it was a small country inn where local farmers would stop for a night and a meal on their way to larger market towns. Faithless would have barely noticed it, had the smells of hot food drifting from the inn not reeled her in like a fish. She had not eaten a hot meal since Longsaddle, and found herself unable to ignore the sudden demands her stomach placed on her.

She ate undisturbed, the hood of her cloak pulled over to conceal her features while she listened to the chatter of other patrons. Most of it was the uninteresting and idle gossip of farmers discussing neighbors and hopes for the harvest, but she did catch a brief discussion regarding the Luskan patrols. They had indeed increased for some strange reason, according to one old man chewing on a scrimshaw pipe. His companions speculated on everything from monsters to an impending invasion from one of Luskan's many enemies. It wasn't long before the conversation shifted to plans for the first cider apple harvest, and Faithless lost interest. She finished her meal, and having already paid the innkeeper, she turned towards the door to leave.

The outside door opened, and a small, unremarkable figure in a coarse brown robe entered, bring with him some of the dampness and chill from outside. He neatly wiped his feet on the straw mat in front of the door before entering the room. His damp hair was cropped very short, and he had a plain, unremarkable face. Yet it was what hung around his neck that had caught her eye. A wooden amulet, hung from a plain bronze chain, was painted with an image of a pair of pale white hands bound by a red cord. Though she had never met the man, she knew what he was. She had seen a similar symbol carved from some sort of celestial wood around the neck of Kaelyn, the angelic priestess who had been the most fanatic supporter of the Betrayer's Crusade. Her eyes followed him intently from beneath her hood. _One of Ilmater's faithful, _she thought cooly.

The robed man approached the innkeeper, who greeted him warmly. "It is good to see you, Brother Kerron!" the innkeeper exclaimed, grasping a man in what appeared to be relief. "Ilmater be praised! I apologize for calling you hear on such short notice. I hope I was not interrupting any of your duties."

"Of course not," Brother Kerron replied warmly. "My first and foremost duty as a servant of Ilmater is to alleviate the suffering and sorrows of others, no matter how small. How fare the boy and his mother?"

"The boy, as you know, suffers from a cold," the innkeeper explained. "A rather unseasonable one. It's his mother who I'm worried about. She's got herself wound up tight, pulling out her hair in worry. I tried to tell her it was a simple cold, that Filis just needs a bit of rest and warm soup, but she's convinced herself it's something horrible, like the Plague. She hasn't been eating or sleeping well, and I worry for her health."

Brother Kerron nodded sagely. "I see," he said after a moment. "Celise worries over her only child's well being, even though his ailment is minor and common. She suffers because she cannot bear to see her son suffering. I am pleased you have called upon the Crying God to intercede, even if you consider this a small matter. In Ilmater's eyes, all suffering, whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual. Show to the room where your wife and son are, and I shall tend to them at once."

"A thousand blessing," the innkeeper said with great relief. "They are upstairs. If you would follow me." The innkeeper turned and went up the small staircase, followed by the priest.

Faithless took a few steps back and sat on an empty stool near the cloak rack. Not just a follower, but a priest of Ilmater. Her breathing sped up, and her hands were clenching into fists. A priest. A devotee of a _god, _the ultimate parasite of the planes. A deep, caustic rage rose in her gullet, a feeling she had not experienced since that day in the temple district of Everlund. Ever since the end of the Betrayer's Crusade, she could not help but feel a visceral loathing of anyone who gave worship or belief to a deity. They, after all, above anything, were the fuel that fed the very fires of the gods' existences. The same gods who tolerated the existence of the Wall, who played games with fate and flogged mortals with delusions of paradise and damnation to ensure their devotion. She felt that same corrosive hatred as she watched the priest disappear from the room. But this time, there was something else far deeper and more profound mixed in. Something both familiar, yet alien at the same time. She was not certain whether to be frightened or intrigued. Slowing her breaths, she stared intently at the staircase, waiting for the priest to return.

An hour had passed before she heard the voices of the priest, innkeeper, and a thick, female voice which she assumed to belong to the innkeeper's wife as they descended down the stairs. The woman could not stop singing Ilmater's praises as she descended first. She was a tall, thick woman with ashy blond hair and pigishly pink skin. The priest followed her, the innkeeper right behind him.

The three went over to the hearth with the woman still ecstatically thanking Brother Kerron for his timely intervention. She was certain he had saved her son's life, though the polite expressions of both innkeeper and priest said otherwise. Faithless felt that had the room not held several patrons plus the innkeeper and priest, she would have merrily beat the silly, sobbing cow into a gelatinous mess. _Yet another piece of livestock to feed the egos of the divine, _she thought darkly. A brief vision of both innkeeper and wife hanging on meat hooks in an abattoir came to mind, and the image felt fitting.

It was the priest, however, that kept the majority of her ire focused. Did he realize just what it was he was feeding with his prayer and devotion? She doubted it. What felt like distant memories came forth of the paladin on his knees, either singing, chanting, or praying in earnest to Tyr, his face the very image of undying devotion as he meditated upon his god. The god that he believed, with every fiber of his being, to be the very embodiment of all that was good, just, and right in the Realms, because he had not been shown any different. She guessed the same might true for this priest. He worshiped Ilmater because he believed that his god was good and cared about the suffering of others. Like the paladin, he was most likely blind to the awful truth of the planes. Unlike the paladin, it was not too late to rescue him from a life of devotional lies.

_I need to have a chat with the priest, _Faithless decided. _He needs to be dissuaded from his religion, like I did with the young initiate of Kelemvor in Mulsantir. He has been lied to. Once he sees the truth about the gods, he will turn away in anger and perhaps spread the truth of the gods: that they are little more than powerful parasites sucking the people of the world dry with faith. _

The inn was not the place for such a confrontation, so she waited patiently as the priest and the couple exchanged pleasantries. The innkeeper had offered the priest free meals and a room for as long as he decided, but Kerron declined, suggesting instead that the innkeeper show his gratitude by offering food and shelter to any poor or sick people who he might encounter. With a final heartfelt farewell, Kerron t left the inn. After a few more moments, Faithless slipped quietly out the door and followed the priest.

The inn was located in a small cluster of houses which were too few to even be considered a village. Brother Kerron had not gone far up the road, having only passed the last house before the road wove through farmland and forest. Faithless walked briskly and silently, and the priest jumped in surprise when she called out to him.

"Brother Kerron, right?" she asked as the startled priest turned to face her. She noticed he carried no visible weapons. _Fool. Probably thinks his faith will protect him. _

The priest eyed her warily, and she realized she still had her hood pulled low over her face. With a casual gesture she flipped it back, and repeated her greeting. The priest relaxed slightly, his face shifting from suspicion to confused concern. "Ilmater's blessing, child," he said softly, giving her a polite nod. "Might I know your name?"

"No, you may not," Faithless replied briskly. "Nor am I interested in Ilmater's blessing, either, so save your breath."

The priest studied her cautiously, but remained calm and collected. "I see," he said after a moment. "Then perhaps there is some other way I can be of service?"

"No, but there is a matter of great importance I think you should be aware of," she told him, a tone of urgency creeping into her chilly tone. "A...very important theological matter, in fact. You need to know that you are being deceived in the worst possible way."

"Oh?" Kerron's dark brows knitted in concern. He took a couple steps toward her and asked, "Deceived in what way, and by whom?"

"By the very power you worship," Faithless explained, stepping closer. "By Ilmater himself. It seems that your own god has not told you the entire story, and I'm here to set things straight.

Kerron sighed deeply. "Please, child, I have no time for pranks, blasphemous or otherwise," he chided her. "Unless you are truly interested in discussing the faith, I'm afraid I must take my leave."

"This is no prank, and I'm not fucking around!" she snapped. "The god you worship is a fraud, just like all the other gods! He claims to be the great champion of the suffering, yet he sits upon his holy throne in Celestia while the greatest suffering of innocents takes place right under his nose! And the most he does is allow a priest or two to fight it!"

"What in the name of all that is holy are you talking about?" Kerron asked, his voice showing a growing irritation that seemed at odds with his humble bearing.

Faithless leaned in closer. "The Wall of the Faithless!" she told him. "That great construct of never ending torment and hunger that devours the very souls of every victim imprisoned within it. Even those of children and idiots! And Ilmater approves!"

Brother Kerron shook his head sadly. "Child, I know not what purpose you think to serve by such claims, but I do not think you understand..."

"Don't tell me I don't understand!" She growled. "I understand better than you do, idiot! I was there! I was in the Wall, and the Wall was within me! I watched it devour, felt it devour, and became the devouring instinct of the damned thing! You lie to yourself if you think you're immune because of the delusion of faith! I had faith once, and it still nearly consumed me! It will consume you too, if you don't wake up and open your eyes!"

Kerron's face stilled, and he gave her a compassionate, knowing look. "I think I understand," he said after a moment, and a shot of hopeful elation coursed through Faithless' heart. _He understands! _She thought gleefully. Her excitement at the prospect of turning this priest away from his god was short lived, however, when he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"It is clear to me that you suffer from some ailment of the mind," Kerron said patiently, favoring her with the look of a father who knows the fairies his child sees are caused by a high fever. "You are in the grips of some terrible delirium, caused by Ilmater knows what. Whatever the cause, child, matters not. You need healing and someone to share your troubles with. Ilmater can help with both. Our shrine is not far, and my brothers and sisters..."

Something old woke within Faithless, an almost adolescent hatred of what she perceived as being patronized. She smacked the priest's hand away and shoved him hard, causing him to lose balance and fall to the ground. All earlier notions of trying to turn the priest from his empty path had vanished, replaced by a consuming rage and hatred of the man who had just offered her succor.

"Fuck you and your fucking lackeys and their shrine!" she shrieked, kicking a clod of dirt at the man laying in front of her. "I'm trying to save you, you religion addled fool! Your worship feeds the lies! As long as you believe, the real suffering will continue!"

So absorbed in her rage was Faithless that she didn't notice the priest clutching his holy symbol and murmuring a prayer. When she realized it, it was too late as a blast of divine force dazed her and knocked her back, causing her to stumble and fall just as Kerron had done. Her skin tingled like a rash with the residual power of the priest's spell, and she rolled in the mud off the road, both in an effort to calm the itching and distance herself from another possible attack.

She heard the rustling of Kerron's robes as he pulled himself up, and she looked back, expecting another blast of Ilmater's power. Instead, Kerron was looking at her sadly, his right hand clutching his amulet. He walked over to her and knelt, offering his hand to help her up.

"Forgive me, child," he apologized gently. "I honestly had no wish to harm you. But I fear in your condition, you pose a danger to yourself and others. I felt compelled to prevent you from doing anymore harm. I don't know what torments you have suffered to make you this way, but I beg you, let Ilmater soothe your troubled mind and heal your spirit. The shrine is not far."

Faithless glared at him incredulously. Was this idiot trying to say she was crazy? That she was merely a simpleton in the grip of some madness? She stifled a giggle. She was the only one in the Realms who knew the truth of anything! Was this priest that stupid?

_Of course not, _Terrible Purpose sneered. _Can you not see this ploy for what it is? He's another lackey of the gods. He wants to drag you off to his temple and fill your mind with the lies of his faith. Don't you see, the gods fear you, they fear your Crusade, and have sent their slaves to stop you. Don't let his pretense of compassion fool you: he seeks to end you and your Crusade! _

Faithless stared warily at the priest's outstretched hand. _How would he know? _She wondered.

_How else do god-worshipers know anything? Their gods tell them! Don't you see? They see in your Crusade, as they did in Akachi's, the death of all faith, and thus, their own demise. They will do anything to stop you. Stop looking at the priest's hand as a gesture of aid, and see it for the poisoned chalice it truly is. _

Faithless looked up at Kerron's unremarkable face, and nodded slowly. _I see. _

_Then you know what you must do. _

She felt the raw power of Terrible Purpose fill every part of her being with a cool, detached certainty. Faithless gave Kerron a knowing smile, and the priest smiled back gently, believing she had finally accepted his offer of help. When he took her hand to help her up, he did so unaware that her grin held his death behind it.

Faithless' body relaxed into a pre-attack fluidity, allowing her the maximum possibilities with which to strike. As Kerron pulled her up by her right hand, her left hand slipped to the hilt of her dagger, and as her momentum pulled her towards the priest, with lightening speed her dagger flashed out from it's sheath and buried itself in the priest's abdomen with a brutal twist. Kerron's eyes widened and he gasped in a mixture of shock and pain, his grip on Faithless' hand releasing as he clutched the pommel protruding from his belly. Not wasting the advantage, Faithless lifted her knee and struck him in the groin, sending the priest crumpling to his knees.

Faithless stepped back casually, glaring coolly down at the priest as he watched his lifeblood gush from his belly. His right hand, still gripping the pommel, was deep red. He didn't even try to staunch the bleeding, and she guessed he was probably still trying to understand what exactly happened.

"I know your game," Faithless whispered without emotion. "When you arrive on the Fugue plane to meet your god, tell him, tell them all, that they will _not _stop me. I understand the Crusade now. And they have every right to be worried."

The dying priest lifted his head to look at her, and Faithless waited for him to spit some curse or dark portent at her. But Kerron's face, despite the grimace of pain, held no malice and anger. Disturbingly, his eyes still held their compassionate, sad gaze. Blood started to dribble from his lips, but he gazed at her serenely. He removed his bloody hand from the dagger and reached up, gently cupping her jaw and chin in a crimson carress.

"May Ilmater's peace find you, child," he half whispered, half gurgled. "With my dying breath I pray you will find the serenity that has been stolen from you." His bloodied lips parted into a gentle smile, and his eyes glazed over as he collapsed in a lifeless heap. His hand fell away from her jaw, leaving a warm, bloody streak in it's place.

Faithless stepped back from the dead priest. A sickening confusion replaced the cold certainty she felt earlier. She stared at the lifeless corpse of Kerron, biting her lip as she touched the spot where his hand had been. _He spent his dying breath giving me a benediction, _she thought uneasily. _No curses. What's going on? _

Her thoughts were interrupted by a horrified shriek behind her, and instinctively drew the Sword of Gith and spun around, expecting to see a local militia with swords drawn and arrows nocked. Instead, she saw a terrified woman clutching a young boy, her eyes wide with fright. The boy looked at the priest's corpse in horror, tears running down his dirty face.

"Ilmater preserve us," the woman whimpered. She grabbed her terrified child and ran screaming towards the cluster of houses. Faithless almost chased her down, but was too shocked herself to follow. She turned back to Kerron's body with a growing sense of unease.

It was Terrible Purpose who snapped her out of bewilderment. _It is time to leave, you idiot, _Terrible Purpose hissed. _Forget the wench and her brat. Leave the priest for the worms. It's time to move on, Crusader. _

Pure instinct took over, and Faithless absently retrieved her dagger from Kerron's belly. His innards gushed out from the now gaping wound, but she shoved the image out of her head. She had done worse to the Luskans. It made no sense why this priest's death should be any different. Shoving her dagger back in it's sheath and returning the Sword to its mounting, she wrapped herself in nearby shadow once again and left the house cluster behind without a glance back.

It was hours before she finally allowed herself to collapse. Was still covered in Kerron's blood, but the earlier unease was starting to fade. What was left in it's wake was akin to having her head dunked in a tub of ice cold water. Her mind was quiet and focused with a certainty she had not felt before. After weeks of wandering through the Luskan wilds, ambushing patrols and losing herself in rapturous violence, she now understood the deeper, and absolute meaning of her Crusade. The ranger was not at the heart of it. She understood that now. Whatever vengeance he had inspired was but a mote of electricity in the greater flow of things. He had been the catalyst, but not the purpose.

The purpose of the Crusade was indeed terrible. It was also liberating.

For the first time since the night at the _Calling Horns _inn, the presence of Terrible Purpose radiated a sense of complete approval and pleasure. _You see now? _The Voice purred almost lovingly.

_Yes, _Faithless replied into the perfect emptiness. _It was right before my eyes and I didn't see it. But I am no longer blind. _

Her Terrible Purpose was nothing short of the death of all faith. The very thread that stitched reality together and was the currency of the planes. When the last spark of faith died, all of existence, including the gods, the laws, the Wall, would forever die with it.

_That is the Great Truth, _Terrible Purpose confirmed. _The priest back there, he died with faith. His death unhinged you because of this. Faith is your true enemy. It must be completely eradicated in order for the Crusade to triumph. Akachi only brushed the surface of this truth, which is why his Crusade failed three times._ _But you understand. And in understanding, you will succeed where the others before failed. _

Faithless focused completely upon this revelation. It did not occur to her that wiping faith and belief from the minds of every sentient being in the realms was, to say the least, a goal formed from the dregs of madness and incredible delusion. The magnitude of such a feat was not important. Only knowing the key to unlocking the end of everything mattered. Everything else was a matter of details and planning.

The moonless night had fallen without much notice as Faithless made her way towards Luskan. The city itself was not her ultimate goal, but what lay within. The City of Sails held many dark secrets within its walls, with the Arcane Brotherhood holding the largest share. Within the Hosttower lay a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge gathered from all corners of Faerun. And if she failed in gaining access, there was always the city itself and its denizens. Though not renown for being a city of piety, there were several temples to the darker gods, each ministering to their flocks of depraved faithful. The seeds of faithlessness would be planted and spread like a virus. Kelmvoris wall would collapse from the surge in souls filling it.

Her steps quickened, now having a purpose of their own. Luskan, as she once erroneously thought, was not the end destination of her Crusade, but the very beginning.


End file.
